


Portents of Fire and Magic

by DesertSkald



Series: A Dream of Dragons [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: (think dream-vampires... kinda), Alduin being terrifying, Ancano being evil, Ancano trying to tang mankind, Angst, Blades, College of Winterhold Quest is actually murder on mages, College of Winterhold Questline, Competent Blades, Dragonborn being a big dumb baby, Dragons being terrifying, Dreamwalkers (Servants of Vaermina), F/F, F/M, Fleshed out College of Winterhold questline, Gen, Humor, MAJOR BREAKS WITH CANON, Main Quest is so fleshed out it needs a book and a half lol, Morokei being terrifying, Multi, Rulindil being a little shit, Skyrim Main Quest, Snark, Thalmor, Thalmor being evil, Thalmor dragonborn, all the Big Bads are terrifying let's just say that, dragons become voices in DB's head, lots and lots of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 152,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertSkald/pseuds/DesertSkald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thalmor Dragonborn, her husband and their Bosmer servant are tasked with freeing Ulfric at Helgen and get roped into saving the world, whether they like it or not.</p><p>Loosely follows all the CoW questline and the MQ up to Elder Knowledge. Deviations, because the whole point of this plot bunny was to shake things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marked by Fate

**Author's Note:**

> DESKTOP USERS: hover mouse for dragon tongue translation (HTML is an amazing thing)  
> MOBILE USERS: translation is at the end of the chapter (sorry, but the html doesn't work on mobile!)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated! I don't bite!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ### Part One: Dragon's Fire

> _"Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off."_
> 
> _\-- Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak_

* * *

  
SKYRIM was the most miserable opposite to Alinor Tamriel had to offer. Even on midsummer's day sitting next to a fire, it’s cold. It was always snowing, or raining, as if the land itself was bitter that the Empire had lost the war. So naturally it was raining now, _spitting_ on Irowe’s Thalmor robes and snowing a few hundred feet above. The horses stamped their feet and snorted, wondering why their riders had stopped here of all places after the afternoon’s long run.

  
Her unit hadn't even dismounted upon arriving from Markarth when First Emissary Elenwen stormed out to the outer courtyard, demanding all available units accompany her. Reluctantly her unit found fresh mounts and rode with the Emissary and two other units in a dash to Pale Pass. A quick interrogation of the border guards revealed that the Imperials had not reached Cyrodiil yet, and they backtracked until the sound of a large convoy reached their ears.

  
Down the hill the Imperial forces crawled to a halt at the sight of the Thalmor Justiciars blocking the pass. First Emissary Elenwen stepped her horse in front and scanned for the familiar scowl of General Tullius. Somewhere in the back he barked orders over the whinnying horses, and the wagons began awkwardly turning around on the small paved road.

  
The First Emissary muttered something and pushed her horse forward, pulling up beside the General’s chestnut for a ‘friendly discussion’. The Justiciars held their position, finally falling in behind the last wagon. Irowe looked from dirty face to bloodied face, still not finding the man they’d ridden across Skyrim to secure.

  
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the kingslayer and staunch worshiper of the false god Talos, leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and 'uncooperative' asset to the Aldmeri Dominion. Under the White-Gold Concordat, the Thalmor Justiciars were ordained with rooting out worship of the ascended god-emperor with the Empire's blessing. Unofficially, they were the Dominion's face and hands in the Empire's provinces, doing whatever was necessary to safeguard the elven homelands. Sometimes that meant inciting rebellion; sometimes that meant perpetuating a quagmire between the Imperial Legion and the rebel Stormcloaks.

  
And sometimes, like today, it meant diplomatically strong-arming the Legion into maintaining status quo.

  
The rebels in the last cart glared at the elves behind them. A few shouted curses, that it was their fault they were bound for an executioner’s block. Irowe glanced over at Amuril; he was the only other Altmer she’d met who merely wore the uniform. Her husband was particularly sensitive to the Nords’ remarks and they noticed, directing their barbs at him. Irowe stepped her mount between him and the carts, reminding him with her eyes that he wasn’t to blame for their suffering. It wasn’t his fault they chose to follow the misguided Jarl.

  
The next cart up joined in the verbal fray, and a legate ran back to shut them up. Once their discontent quieted to a murmur she rejoined the General; both the General and the First Emissary began raising their voices. The Imperials continued moving back towards the town's fort down the hill.

  
Magnus peered out from a cloud and its rays began drying up the land, starting with the falling rain. Irowe’s stomach turned when the two arguing leaders pulled off the fort road to continue their discussion as the train continued towards the fort. They were supposed to stop.

  
Everyone knew the rebel leader was a Talos worshipper - he’d gone to war over the damned ‘deity’ - and under the Concordat’s terms that gave the Thalmor priority of the prisoners. The carts and prisoners hurried to the fort’s eastern tower in the center of town, a few pointed stares daring the elves to follow. The General’s horse started and trotted after the carts, leaving the Thalmor standing empty-handed at the eastern gate.

  
“You're making a _grave_ mistake, general.” Elenwen called after him. She gripped the reins and followed the road to the western gate, the Justiciars falling in behind her. Irowe turned in her saddle as she heard an axe bury itself in wood. There was already a small crowd gathered for the impromptu execution, cheering and jeering the rebel soldiers. She tucked an unruly strand of red hair back under her hood and faced the pine forests of Falkreath, swallowing as she heard the axe thud again.

  
The guards at the gate eyed them as they passed under, sealing the oak doors behind them. As the road curved away and the town disappeared behind the foot of the mountains, the sounds of Imperial justice faded with it. There was only the quiet drip of rain from the pines and birds calling out across the scattered remains of an ancient ruin.

  
Irowe sighed. Looks like they’d come all this way for nothing. At least it would look good on their records that they’d ‘volunteered’. Maybe it - and a dozen other small conveniences - would be enough to get Amuril’s ‘sentence’ shortened and they could retire before her birthday-

  
“Master Malcior.”

  
The sound of her husband’s name in Altmeris drew Irowe’s attention back to the Emissary. Amuril pulled up next to Elenwen’s mount.

  
“Emissary?”

  
“Alinor requires that the civil war continues, and either side would fail if they lost their respective leaders.”

  
Amuril and Irowe shared a look. “I understand, Emissary.”

  
The Emissary directed her gaze down to his saddlebag before fixing him with a stare. “Then do your duty.”

  
Amuril pulled his horse to the side of the road and dismounted. Another rider - their servant, Fallon - stepped aside as well, and Irowe did the same. The other units followed Elenwen on the road north.

  
Irowe dismounted and looked in her sidesaddle; inside was a Stormcloak uniform that hadn’t been cleaned since its last owner relinquished it. Amuril made a face at the smell of his helmet but put it on, making sure to tuck his white-blond hair under the coif. Meanwhile Fallon put away his elven armor, somehow finding space in the small saddlebag for the full suit.

  
The Bosmer reached for his bow and arrows but pulled back, and finally sighed, leaving them with the horse. Elven arrows would draw imperial attention. Fallon skipped up to one of the ruined pillars and peeked around towards the town. In the sun his skin was a light enough brown that he could pass as a man, as long as he kept his head in the helmet.

  
Irowe studied Amuril, the studious grim look on his face. She knew he had a habit of acting against the Thalmor’s best wishes; it came from spending most of his life in Hammerfell. To her knowledge, he’d only been accused of being lax with transgressors, assigning fines instead no matter the crime. If they ever found out about the prisoners he’d helped release, the documents he forged, they’d do more than transfer him to the Coldharbour that was Skyrim.

  
Assigning a mer with questionable loyalties to free a dissident and continue the rebellion in Skyrim? Either Elenwen had taken leave of her senses or... or this was a trap.

  
“Amuril-”

  
“So what’s the plan, besides ‘kill everyone’?” Fallon asked.

  
“The General and the Jarl have to live.” Amuril adjusted the long sleeves to hide his gold skin. “Everyone else is expendable. We’ll go in through the east gate - we’d have to clear it anyway to get the Stormcloaks out.”

  
“They won’t get far without horses,” Irowe pointed out. “The Imperials will just run them down.”

  
“We could bring the horses with us.”

  
“No, we’ll have to stay close to the mountains and they’d only slow us down.” Amuril scraped at dried blood left on his helmet and thought for a moment. “I’ll run back and get the horses once you two are inside.” Irowe opened her mouth- “Come on.”

  
“Was wondering how you’d pass yourself off as a Stormcloak wizard...” Fallon muttered as they started creeping back along the pillars and boulders.

  
“Amuril.” Irowe pinched his sleeve and stood beside him. “ _Don’t_ do anything stupid. We’re so close to you retiring.” He opened his mouth- “ _Don’t._ ”

  
They stared at each other long enough that Fallon began heading back before Amuril sighed. “I won’t.”

  
She wasn’t sure if she believed him but he wasn’t walking like he was up to something, so she followed. Stealing up the road towards the town and fort was infuriatingly difficult but possible. The few pine trees that dotted the landscape provided cover when the mountain couldn’t, though they’d had to scale boulders more than once.

  
The wooden palisade loomed ahead of them and cheers rang out again. Irowe prayed it wasn’t Ulfric’s head they were liberating, or they’d be the ones facing Elenwen’s wrath. They crept beneath the palisade towards the stone gate. Two guards patrolled the ramparts.

  
Fallon tapped Irowe twice before leaping onto her shoulders, barely giving her time to steady her stance. The Wood Elf archer slipped under the rope railing on the gate’s walkway and out of sight. Moments later the gate knocked before he held it ajar, wiping his knife on the blue tunic before sheathing it. A wooden bow hung from his shoulder and a quiver of steel arrows was tied to his belt. Irowe slipped in and the three of them darted across the road to the shadow of the houses.

  
There weren’t any people on the street as they were all gathered on the far side of the eastern watchtower. At least the executions had remained constant, and the cheering provided more than enough cover for the clanking of their chainmail. An eerie lowing echoed across the mountains and the walls, she had never heard anything quite like it. There wasn’t time to wonder what it was though; there couldn’t be many Stormcloaks left to behead.

  
Fallon tapped Irowe again and scaled her then the fort’s wall in quick succession. A few moments later he peered over the edge and gave a thumbs-up that Ulfric was still alive. He unslung the bow and drew an arrow, stalking back against the tower to eliminate the opposition.

  
“Don’t do anything stupid.” She reminded him.

  
Amuril chuckled and tapped their helmets together. “I’ll leave that to you.”

  
Irowe swatted at him but grinned. “Good.”

  
She watched the ramparts and towers as he ran back through the gate and out of sight. Irowe exhaled and stretched her fingers, swinging her arms back and forth in front of her to ease her nerves. The lowing echoed again, this time louder. Closer. It... almost sounded like the roar of a large animal. Something huge. She turned and looked to the gate, wondering if Amuril was alright-

  
The roar came again and a surge of air pushed her against the fort wall which shook her to the ground. She rolled to her feet and stared up at the fort tower, unable to comprehend the giant midnight beast atop it.

  
“Dragon!” Someone screamed. A higher-pitched roar pierced her ears. The roof closest to the stone rampart kicked up thatch before a heavy thud dropped next to her.

  
“Fallon-”

  
“What in Oblivion is that thing?! Where did it come from?!” He pushed himself to his feet and wheeled away from the fort as the dragon did the same, issuing its soul-chilling cry to the mountains.

  
Irowe grabbed Fallon’s shoulders and shook him back to reality. “Fallon! Where’s Ulfric?”

  
“I-I don’t know, I saw him running towards the fort-”

  
Irowe took his wrist and dragged him to the fort’s road. They had to find Ulfric, the Jarl had to survive. Skyrim was where the Thalmor assigned agents they didn’t want anywhere else; there was nowhere _worse_ to go if they failed this mission.

  
Frightened townsfolk streamed down the road around them, only a few noticing their Stormcloak uniforms and none of them caring. A child ran between her and Fallon and the crowd further separated them. Irowe whirled around and tried to find the Bosmer- there were too many people running in the opposite direction. She couldn’t leave him here, but they had to find Ulfric. Irowe spotted a small group of Stormcloaks near the fort’s entrance; one of them had a gag-

  
Her head hit the ground and the earth shook. Her filthy Stormcloak helmet absorbed most of the impact but left her head ringing. Irowe rolled over, cursing ‘superior Nord craftsmanship’ and-

  
The sky wasn’t black. Smoky, yes, but not black. Her eyes widened as she realized the dragon was standing over her.

  
Irowe rolled back flat on her back and threw up the highest ward she could muster, pinning herself between the ward and the cobblestone. The dragon lurched back and roared at her, spraying fire all across the magic shield. The fire ate away at the ward and kept coming. Irowe poured all her magicka into the ward but still it flickered at the edges, and her magicka was draining fast. Finally the ward fell and everything was fire and pain- She tried to roll away and cover her head-

  
The dragon snarled and wheeled towards the fort, yelling in some barbaric tongue. Irowe crawled to her feet in the opposite direction and ran blind-

  
“ _Irowe!_ ”

  
She stumbled towards the sound of her name until she ran into something- _someone_ ran into her. Amuril. He pulled her off the road and to the relative safety of an alley.

  
Amuril swore at the superheated metal but he yanked the helmet off Irowe, brushing crusted skin and blood from her face. Irowe fumbled with a restoration spell and covered her eyes. She just wanted the pain to stop. All she could think of was the pain, the dragon standing over her. Those red eyes-

  
“Fallon, where is that bastard Nord?!” Amuril hissed.

  
“Inside that... the tower...” Fallon panted and came to a stop next to the Altmer couple, the arrows in his quiver rustling together.

  
The dragon sounded like it was attacking the fort itself, stones crumbled to the ground and wood splintered from the fires. There was smoke everywhere; it smelled worse than the Imperial City during the war. People were screaming or shouting orders, and the dragon kept yelling. She swore it almost sounded like words she could recognize, and always the same ones.

  
“Irowe? Irowe can you see?” His voice was shaking.

  
Irowe pulled her hands away and opened her eyes. It was blurry from blood, but she could make out shapes and blobs of color. She stated as such to Amuril whose shoulders collapsed with relief.

  
The bluish grey blur in front of her turned to her left. “Find Ulfric. Tell him to get to the east gate, I’ll cover him.”

  
Fallon nodded and ran to the street. He leapt back as a group of horses rode past. From the faint blue she guessed they were Stormcloaks.

  
“Uh, there he goes.”

  
Amuril took hold of her wrist and helped her to the corner. “Run for the gate, the horses are on the south road.”

  
The dragon toppled one of the fort’s towers and crushed a few men beneath the stones, one of them was still screaming- Amuril pulled her onto the road and they sprinted for the faint blur of sky amidst the grey and fire. The dragon kept roaring its battle cry and she couldn’t hear anyone left alive to challenge it. Once they exited the gate Amuril hoisted her onto her horse and made sure she was secure before mounting his. Fallon was already galloping after the Stormcloaks up the road, and Irowe urged her horse to follow.

  
The road to Eastmarch snaked through the Jerall Mountains and past the snowline, but at least they couldn’t hear the dragon over the howling wind. The horses were only too happy to hurry along the snowed-over stones and to relative safety. An hour later the snow and rocks gave way to autumn leaves and frozen dirt, and Fallon rode ahead to gauge the lead the Stormcloaks had on them.

  
Irowe slowed to a walk and glanced around. Amuril pulled alongside her and reached out towards her face with something wet, rubbing the blood and charred skin away as gently as he could from his horse. It was a little easier to see, but she still couldn’t make out her husband’s expression and he was an arm’s length away. It was livable - she wasn’t _blind_ , but her sight wasn’t perfect either.

  
Fallon shrieked and galloped back to them.

  
“ _Dragon_.” He hissed. “That damn thing’s coming around the mountain.” Amuril turned his horse’s head- “-From the _north_! It flew around the damn mountain!”

  
Their horses caught the scent of winged death and began rearing when their riders wouldn’t let them run. The dragon roared and swept over the top of the birch trees... and past them, towards the Jeralls. Irowe heard it land, but it was too far away for her to see.

  
“Amuril, it’s staring straight at us.”

  
Amuril shushed the worried Bosmer. Their horses whinnied to themselves, snorting and dipping their heads. A bloom of golden light erupted from the ground at the foot of the mountains. Fallon started cursing.

  
“Did it just...” Neither of the mer finished the question, sitting in stunned silence.

  
“What?”

  
“Some bloody dragon _necromancer_ -”

  
“The black one just raised another dragon. A large red one- there’s two of them now.”

  
“Can we leave _now_?” Fallon hissed.

  
“Running now might attract attention...” The master wizard began before the dragons grabbed their attention. The two dragons shouted at each other, and the red one roared to the ground before taking off. Heading straight for them.

  
“ _Move!_ ” Amuril yelled.

  
Irowe kicked her horse to a gallop as the dragon rushed over them. Fallon veered off to the left suddenly and Irowe struggled to keep to the road, cursing the fork for not being more obvious to a half-blind elf. There was a lake off to their right, and what looked like a bridge ahead, some buildings meant another town. Perhaps these guards would fare better than the last's.

  
The ground shook and Fallon’s horse threw him to the ground. The horse screamed as the dragon clamped down on its torso and shook it until its cries died. It hung limply from bloody jaws before the dragon snapped through bone and tore it in two ragged chunks. Fallon scrambled back to Irowe’s mount and climbed into the saddle with her, taking the reins and forcing the frightened mare to safety.

  
Amuril urged his horse in between them and the new dragon, conjuring a frost atronach as a distraction. The icy golem stood there a moment before slamming its forearm against the dragon's jaw. The dragon snarled and roasted the atronach into a puddle.

  
When the dragon turned its attention back to the mer, they were speeding away along the lake’s southern shore. The dragon roared at their deception and flew up after them.

  
Fallon turned the reins back to Irowe and drew his bow. When the dragon hovered over them he fired, scratching a scale. Fallon cursed the dragon's thick hide and drew another arrow, aiming for the same spot but the dragon turned away. They continued riding along the bank of the lake, finally finding a trail through the rocky outcrop to the forest. Hopefully the dragon couldn't land through all the trees; they couldn't spare another horse.

  
It came around again and Amuril was the first to strike, summoning a blizzard and hurling it at the beast. The dragon couldn't move out of the way and snarled as it slammed into its chest.

  
Irowe charged up a lightning bolt. Lightning always jumped to the nearest object and the dragon was the only thing flying around, she didn't have to be accurate. When the bolt struck the dragon it howled in pain.

  
Fallon pulled the horse back towards the relative safety of a grove as Irowe thought about what had just happened. It didn’t make sense that that one bolt of lightning hurt the dragon more than Amuril's blizzard. Dragons breathed fire; they had to have a weakness to frost... or did they?

  
On its next pass over them Irowe shot another bolt at the flying monster, and it shouted something in its language that was undoubtedly a curse.

  
“Ripped a hole in its wing!” Fallon yelled, “Good shot!”

  
It wasn't what she had aimed for, but it proved her theory.

  
“Amuril! It's weak to magic! Kill it!”

  
The master wizard pulled his horse to a stop and gathered a storm of sparks in his hands, letting it grow until he could barely contain it. The lightning shot out and struck the beast's chest and it roared. Behind them the other dragon roared, though she couldn't see where it was.

  
The red dragon, now hobbled with its ripped wing and bleeding from the hole in its chest, did its best to land gracefully. All that could be managed however was an undignified skid through the mud and shallows of the lake, which left it hurling more curses towards the Justiciars. It slung mud off its head and neck, glaring black daggers down its snout at the three mer. The dragon lowered its head and mumbled to itself in its language, its voice rising in venom and volume until it was bellowing curses at them.

  
Fallon climbed off the mare and loosed an arrow at the beast's open jaws, finally finding soft tissues inside its throat. It howled and charged, digging into the mud and gaining speed. The horses screeched and sped away back up the lakeside, abandoning the Bosmer to an enraged dragon.

  
“Fallon!”

  
Irowe slid off her horse and ran back to where he was hurriedly loosing arrows, hoping to get another lucky hit on the dragon or slow it down. Irowe shot one firebolt after another and finally drew the dragon’s attention. It lumbered past Fallon, swinging its neck as it passed and knocking him into the water. Amuril had regained control of his horse and was racing back to the fray, but after that lightning storm earlier they’d be lucky if he could manage a spark in their defense.

  
Irowe conjured an axe with her right hand and charged another lightning bolt in her left. She ran at the dragon yelling, hoping that was the last thing it’d expect. The dragon roared and started to yell in its language. Irowe blasted the bolt down the dragon’s throat and it snarled, snapping its jaws at the taste of burnt air and flesh.

  
She ran up to its neck and swung the axe, scraping along its hide until the blade caught in a joint. Scales ripped off the dragon’s neck as she shoved the axe head towards its head, exposing bleeding flesh underneath. Finally, a weakness even she could see.

  
Irowe swung the axe into the dragon’s skin and black blood gushed out onto the mud and her Stormcloak uniform. The dragon was screaming in pain and trying to get away from her but she held it down with the axe sunken in its throat and summoned another.

  
Its screams devolved to gurgling, the claws on its wings swiping at her as it reared, trying to swing her free of its neck. Irowe clung to the axes but the handles were slick with blood. She flew several yards into the shallows, scrambling to her feet as she coughed out the scummy water. The dragon lowed and collapsed on the ground, the axes dissipating from its neck when the water broke Irowe's concentration.

  
A crack of thunder made her whirl around for the source. Had Amuril’s magicka regenerated enough to finish it off? No, he was helping Fallon out of the water, so what...

  
She noticed her teammates staring at her and a golden haze at the edges of her vision. The dragon’s flesh was melting into the air, into golden light, leaving only bones behind. Light that swirled around her and whispered spiteful curses in her ears. Irowe clasped her hands to her head, trying to stop the voice that was screaming at her. The scream grew louder and louder. _Alduin Alduin Alduin_...

  
“ _DOV AH KIIN!_ ”

  
Everything shook as the guttural shout rent the air. An angry roar rang out through the valleys, and a small earthquake knocked her to the ground.

  
“ _Irowe_ -!”

  
The dragon’s shout drowned out Amuril’s cry, and she heard a splash from the lake. The black dragon loomed over her and she froze, her body aching at what had happened the last time they’d met. She had no magicka left, none at all. Irowe was completely at its mercy, and she suspected the black dragon had none.

  
“Dovahkiin...” It rumbled, smoke curling from its jaws.

  
Irowe scurried back along the banks. The black dragon pinned her with its claws, pressing her into the mud just hard enough to push the air from her lungs. She cried out as mud oozed over her hips and shoulders. Finally the dragon stopped, its wing resting heavy on her chest.

  
“ _Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi_.”

  
She stopped prying at the claw holding her and stared at the dragon. Suddenly the dragon’s words made sense, the whispers echoing meaning in her mind. The new voice cried agreement with the dragon’s words.

  
“ Ni krii. Nu.” It drew in close to her, its maw smelled of decay and blood. “ _Fen **ahraan**._ ”

  
The whispers pitched and shrieked with ecstasy as her stomach churned. The dragon reared its head and shouted at her.

  
“ _Qonahmir, Ziil Du Vo!_”

  
There was a flash as bright as lightning and the peal of thunder. And pain, like her soul was being ripped from her body. The whispering faded gleefully as darkness took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Zu'u koraav no dov do hi: I recognize nothing from Dragonkind about you.
>   * Ni krii. Nu: (I will) not kill (you). Yet
>   * Fen ahraan: (this) will hurt
>   * Ziil Du Vo: Spirit Devour Undo
> 

> 
> (So I have this divided into 'sections' in my Word document and... if there is a way to split works into sections here I can't figure it out. ^^;)


	2. Flight to the Embassy

> _"Alduin is a reel dragon, with flesh and teeth and a meen streek longer than the White River. And there was a time when Alduin tried to rool over all of Skyrim with his other dragons."_
> 
> _\-- Thromgar Iron-Head_

* * *

  
DRACONIC incantations rang out across the lake and the two mer watched in horror as the red dragon knit itself back together again.

  
“You’re kidding me. We killed it, she killed it. You can’t raise the dead _twice_ , that’s _cheating_ -”

  
Amuril clapped a hand over Fallon’s mouth. They were too far from the tree line to run for it and he doubted the lake would be deep enough to stop a dragon for another dozen yards. If the dragons turned their attention to them, they couldn’t swim or run fast enough to escape.

  
He kept an eye on the dragons and pulled off his right glove. The red dragon bellowed something in its tongue, shaking its head free of blood and mud. Amuril glanced down at the enchanted ring on his finger, specifically the violet gem in its center that showed his wife’s life signs. It was flickering faintly. He swallowed and slipped the glove back on.

  
The red dragon roared and lunged at the black dragon’s wings but it backed up when its necromancer gripped its throat in its jaws. They each stepped back and began to argue in their tongue. Fallon stirred the water, hoping that his bow had been flung somewhere nearby. A few arrows drifted onto the bank and he grabbed those closest to him. Amuril clenched his fist, trying to judge if he had enough magicka to release a chain of lightning at the two beasts. The magic pooled in his hands but nowhere near the amount needed.

  
The black dragon shouted something and lifted itself into the air, the red dragon following its lead. They both flew out of sight to the east, roars resonating over the forest and mountains.

  
“Irowe... Irowe?” Amuril climbed out of the shallows and through the trenches of mud the two dragons had kicked up. He finally caught a glimpse of blue and metal halfway in the water. “Irowe!”

  
He knelt down and put a hand on her chest, but if she was breathing it was too faint for him to feel. He pulled off his gloves again, glancing at the unsteady light of the ring before pouring what magicka he had left into a restoration spell.

  
“Don’t die on me, Irowe, don’t you dare leave me now...”

  
Fallon trudged up the bank, shaking mud and muck off the bow he’d plucked out of the lake. He whistled and listened for the distant whinny of their mounts. Amuril focused his attention on the spell. Despite his extensive education, Restoration had never been his strongest school; that was why Irowe was the unit’s healer. He nearly fell forward and shot a hand out to the mud behind her, dizzy from the magicka drain. Amuril looked at the ring again, clearing muck off the gem. The glow was faint, but steady.

  
Fallon walked back from the edge of the forest with the horses’ reins in hand, hanging back as he saw their lead picking his wife’s limp form out of the mud.

  
“Is she...?”

  
“She’s alive, but she needs a healer.”

  
Amuril wrapped his arm under hers and climbed into the saddle, adjusting her leg so she was sitting in front of him. What magicka he had regained he poured into a healing spell. Hopefully it would keep Irowe alive until a priest could do better.

  
“We still need to follow those Stormcloaks, make sure they make it to Windhelm.”

  
“I know that!” Amuril snapped. Fallon recoiled and glanced at the ground, the mare’s tack, anywhere but the Altmer wizard.

  
Amuril shook his head and softened his voice. “I know that... Are you injured?”

  
Fallon rubbed his back, still refusing to make eye contact. “I’ll make it to the embassy...”

  
“Once we’ve seen the Jarl safely to Windhelm.”

  
The two horses started trotting down the banks to the west, back towards the bridge and town nestled at the foot of the mountains.

  
Fallon frowned and stood up in his saddle, peering over the cliffs to the northeast. “We’ll have to ride fast to catch up with them, those dragons put the fear of death in them.”

  
Amuril grimaced and urged his horse to a canter. If they were lucky, they could catch up with them in the wastes. They raced across the bridge and through the town down the steep road north. He prayed they were riding too fast for anyone to note Irowe’s ears, though if he was being honest her burnt face was the first thing a stranger would notice.

  
They kept the river to their left and slowed to a walk on the steeper parts of the dirt path, picking the pace back up on the straightaways. While the horses stepped carefully down the hills Amuril repeated the healing spells; the only thing he could do to help Irowe in her current state.

  
Fallon pulled his horse to a stop and backed up into the bushes a turn before the path down the cliff joined the main road. Down below on the far side of the river, there were a few campfires nestled against the cliff. A circle of tents ringed the fires and a large house on the edge of the Darkwater’s pool. Galloping down the main road was the Stormcloak troop.

  
Amuril frowned. He remembered one of the other justiciars mentioning the Imperial ambush was near a mine by Darkwater, and if he tried he could just make out some timber scaffolding near the cliff base. He couldn't blame the Stormcloaks for wanting to avoid the place, but he hoped they weren’t going to gallop the remaining four leagues to Windhelm. Their horses had been traveling for nine hours nearly all around Skyrim, he wasn’t sure if they could sustain a gallop for very long. The last thing he wanted was to be stranded deep in Stormcloak territory with spent horses.

  
They waited for the Stormcloaks to cross the northern bridge before trailing them across the wastes. The Nords did slow to a trot once they had passed a woodmill, but they kept their distance all the same. It started raining again, but with the sun setting and this far north it quickly changed to snow. The wind blew in bitter cold from the coast, but he didn't dare pull his robes out from the saddlebag. Not in Eastmarch Hold, not with Irowe injured or the horses tired; definitely not all three.

  
The brimstone pools on their right gave way to tundra as the Darkwater joined up with the White River. The sunlight faded and the Stormcloaks again gained speed, catching sight of the city carved into the foot of the Winterhold Mountains. The mer did not share their enthusiasm, as their home was fifteen leagues west through the coldest holds the province could offer. The Stormcloaks sped across the bridge to Windhelm’s stables; the Thalmor sped off to the west, eager to leave the rebel’s territory.

* * *

  
The eastern sky was reddening when they finally reached the embassy’s gates. The guards drew their bows and only relaxed when Amuril held his eagle sigil up for them to see. There was a light layer of snow over the courtyard, with muddy tracks crisscrossing where the watch had made their rounds. The horsemaster wouldn’t be up for another hour and the stableboy was nowhere to be seen.

  
Fallon groaned and dismounted, bending his knees now that he was standing on the ground for once. Amuril held onto Irowe and gripped the saddle pommel, stepping off the horse-

  
His right foot caught in the stirrup and both Malciors collapsed onto the snow covered pavement. Irowe moaned but didn’t move. Amuril sighed and remained on the ground, too tired from the journey and everything that had happened to care at this point.

  
Fallon walked over and flicked the stirrup off Amuril’s boot. “Want help up?”

  
“I want a _bed_. I want _food_. I want a _healer_. And a bath: I’m covered in mud and I stink of horse.”

  
“Oh, that’s not the only thing you stink of.”

  
Amuril sighed and sat up, taking the opportunity to look at Irowe’s face in the lamplight. It was a patchwork of blisters, scabs and caked blood, and with as little sleep as he had had, it was hard to tell where the dragon’s blood stopped and Irowe’s started. He bowed his head and rested his forehead against hers, wincing as he heard dry skin and scabs crackling at the touch.

  
There was a screech as Fallon found the stableboy asleep behind a bale and started berating him for falling asleep when there were horses to put away. Another voice joined in to the young mer’s defense and all three began babbling in Bosmeris. Fallon was having none of their excuses. Amuril shook his head and climbed to his feet, picking up Irowe once he was fairly certain he wouldn’t fall over.

  
Two Bosmer - one frightened, one scowling - took the tack off the horses, both brushing hay off their tumbled clothes. The timid one carefully placed one of the saddlebags on the stones outside the stable; his companion dropped the other from shoulder height. Fallon stomped over to smack the lad’s head into a post-

  
“-Fallon.”

  
The other servant harrumphed and retreated to the stables where his companion hissed angrily at him. Fallon growled and walked over to the bags, holding his hand up and frowning. He groaned and wiped his face.

  
“Damn the Green, I left my saddlebag on the horse...”

  
“Hey!” The other Bosmer waved a brush at him for cursing their homeland-

  
“You shut up!” Fallon yelled back at him.

  
“Fallon. Enough.” Amuril walked past him towards the barracks; Fallon shot one last glare at the horsehand before hurrying ahead to get the door.

  
Inside the barracks it was finally a reasonable temperature, warm enough to thaw their blood after weathering the sea’s storm. Fallon snatched a loaf off the cupboard by the window and dug into it. Amuril continued walking to the back, stepping into the doorway beneath the main stairwell. The surgeon’s eyes widened when she saw the three of them walk into the infirmary.

  
“What happened?” She asked, unfolding sheets on the nearest bed for Irowe.

  
Fallon swallowed. “Dragon.”

  
“Dragon?”

  
“Two of them.” Amuril added, bending over to place Irowe on the mattress. “She hasn’t woken up since the fight. I think the dragon took something from her.”

  
“Tamaril.”

  
Her assistant walked in from the storage room, stared, and walked back to the storage cupboards. He finally came out with bandages thick as blankets slung over his shoulders and a large basin of water. The basin he placed on the table next to the bed then used a flame spell to heat the water. The surgeon grabbed a bandage from his shoulder and dipped it in the water before running it over Irowe’s face.

  
“If we’re lucky, it won’t scar much.” Valenya offered.

  
Tamaril began removing the melted leather and cloth from her, cutting the belts after finding the buckles fused together. Fallon hummed and started taking off his own filthy armor. Amuril woke himself from his stupor and started unbuckling the straps locking him into the Nord outfit. He'd be very glad to get rid of the damn thing.

  
The sound of the wind grew louder as the door opened, quieting when it closed. Heavy boots marched down the hall and one of the watchmen leaned in.

  
“Master Malcior?” Amuril nodded, not liking where this was going. “The emissaries want you in the Solar.”

  
Amuril sucked on his cheeks and refastened the belt at his hip. Irowe was being cared for, and Fallon was more than capable of seeking treatment on his own if he wanted it. They were fine, and the emissaries did need to know what had happened... He nodded and followed the watchman out the door.

  
Magnus hadn’t climbed up over the mountain tops to warm Skyrim for the morning, so the outer courtyard was freezing. He hugged his arms to his body and followed the night guard to the embassy. He understood why there wasn’t an exterior gate connecting the two courtyards - security - but it _was_ tiresome. He always felt like he was traveling from Skyrim’s northern coast to Valenwood, back to Skyrim, and to the Green again in the span of five minutes. The few minutes he’d spent in the barracks seemed cruel now, as they’d only made the weather outside colder by comparison. Amuril climbed the stairs inside the embassy to the inner courtyard doors, bracing for the Sea of Ghost’s bite once he opened it.

  
The inner courtyard was a marked difference from the outer one. Were it a different clime it would be a lovely garden. But this was Skyrim: the only plants that would grow on the northern coast were thinly disguised sticks, with frigid flowers on the tips stretching for sunlight. _Khefrem_ had more chance of growing decent shrubbery than Haafingar.

  
Not that anyone would have the stomach to appreciate actual flora. The Justiciars only came to the solar or the inner courtyard when they had guard duty or they’d been summoned, for good or ill. Nobody _wanted_ to be here, or near the emissaries; every last one of them was terrifying in one way or another.

  
Inside the solar he briefly caught the eye of the mer on duty; the guard raised an eyebrow at his outfit but said nothing. Amuril swallowed and crossed the main room to Iachesar’s office.

  
Iachesar, the oldest of Skyrim’s three emissaries and Lead Justiciar was seated at his desk, while his aide nervously straightened the rolls of paper for transcription. Rulindil, the Lead Inquisitor, slouched in the chair by the bookshelf with his chin on his chest. Elenwen, the First Emissary and head of all Thalmor activities in Skyrim, was not present.

  
“Is the First Emissary joining us?”

  
“I suspect _you’d_ know more about that, seeing as your unit left with her and the others.” Rulindil sighed and crossed his arms, gold eyes staring past the elder Altmer mage.

  
Amuril rested his hands together behind his back. “She ordered my unit to rescue the Jarl after the General refused to release him. -We did so, he returned to Windhelm last night.”

  
“Wonderful.” Iachesar remarked drily. The servant glanced up before skittering his quill over the parchment in shorthand. “Anything else?”

  
Amuril told them everything that had happened between their departure from the main group and the Jarl’s arrival at Windhelm. How the dragon razed the town, how they saw it raise another dragon and the battle that ensued when the two dragons attacked them. He restated that the Jarl made it safely to Windhelm, that they’d come straight from there, and Irowe was in the infirmary with injuries sustained from the dragons.

  
Rulindil sat in his chair, scratching his beard or covering a yawn to pass the time. The servant’s quill fluttered back and forth as he transcribed Amuril’s words into a few short symbols. He paused and frowned the first time the dragons were mentioned, struggling to find a shorthand for it.

  
“Go over what happened when the dragons attacked again.” Iachesar said.

  
“Yes, you seem to imply that this second dragon was resurrected _twice_.” Rulindil ran a gloved hand over his beard.

  
“Its flesh just melted into the air, into a golden light.” He swallowed. “Then the black dragon came back, it... shouted at us and we fell back into the lake.”

  
“All three of you?” Iachesar asked, the edges of his mouth curling up.

  
“No. No, Irowe was underneath it, it... pinned her under its...” His tired mind struggled for the word. “Wing. It said something in Draconic and the second dragon came back to life.”

  
Amuril left out the part about the soul light going to and from Irowe. The emissaries barely tolerated his report as it was; he'd be thrown out of the solar for such fanciful nonsense. Iachesar raised his eyebrows; he folded his palms together and pressed his thumbs to his lips. That wasn’t a good sign.

  
“Master Malcior, are you _sure_ you came straight here? Your entire report sounds like a trip through a bottle.”

  
“Or Oblivion...” Rulindil murmured, stifling a yawn. Iachesar’s slanted golden eyes flitted over to his associate before resting pointedly on Amuril.

  
Amuril’s shoulders dipped. “I don’t drink, Emissary, nor do I tolerate Daedra. I don’t understand it any more than you do, but that is... how I would explain what happened.”

  
Iachesar closed his eyes and sighed, placing his arms down on the table. “Well. We’ll see if Elenwen can confirm your story when she returns. Perhaps she or the other units saw this ‘dragon’ of yours.”

  
Amuril nodded, but he doubted the other Thalmor could verify the tale. If they wouldn’t believe him or the healers tending to Irowe, well, he didn’t have anything else to offer as proof.

  
“Emissary?”

  
Rulindil made a low growl in his throat, barely containing his ire at the tales Amuril had told them. Amuril straightened his shoulders; he'd be back at the barracks soon. He held onto that thought for comfort.

  
“Fallon lost his gear with the horse when the dragon attacked. He needs another eagle.”

  
Iachesar scoffed. The Second Emissary snatched the paper away from the Bosmeri servant and added a few lines of his own.

  
“Dismissed.”

  
Amuril gave the quickest bow he could manage and hurried out the door. It hadn't even closed before Rulindil began denouncing the report line by line. There wasn't anything he could do about that now: he'd given his report, it wasn't his fault if it wasn't believed. Amuril walked back to the barracks. He wanted a bath. He wanted a warm meal. He wanted to know Irowe was alright.

  
Once inside the barracks he saw the Stormcloak uniforms were dumped underneath the stairs. Amuril paused before adding his gloves, belt, cloak, and mail to the pile. There were faint sounds from some of the rooms as those with day watch roused from their beds to the kitchens or the practice yard. Fallon wasn't inside the infirmary, hopefully that meant he'd only suffered bruises and scrapes. Judging by the mud tracks leading to the door, he'd probably gone to bed in the servants’ quarters.

  
The healers were talking quietly in the corner. Irowe had been changed into a fresh tunic, though her upper body and arms were wrapped in bandages. Her head was completely covered, leaving only her eyes and a few unruly red locks uncovered. Amuril took the seat next to her bed and held her hand, hoping that she would say something. Valenya walked over to them and stood at the head of the bed opposite Amuril.

  
“She is resting now.”

  
“Has she woken up at all?”

  
“Briefly; we gave her a sleeping draught.” The surgeon placed a hand against the hand wrappings, dampening it with a sponge from a basin filled with water and herbs.

  
“There are a few fractures in her chest, but I will have Curawen inform Iachesar in a few hours. I've asked for light guard duty over the next month, and your Bosmer needs a few days rest as well. Are you injured, Master Malcior?”

  
He shook his head. As a battlemage he’d been trained to keep out of close quarters, and strictly ranged fighting had kept him alive through the war. That habit had prevented him from accumulating too many injuries, but perhaps if he had been closer or quicker, the rest of his team wouldn't have suffered as much as they did.

  
“Stiff, and sore from riding. I don't think anything's broken.”

  
Valenya nodded and checked the bandages on Irowe’s face and shoulders. “You said it took something from her? The dragon?”

  
Amuril focused on the lamp behind the surgeon. What had he seen? There was a gold light surrounding her after the dragon died, at the time he assumed it was the dragon’s soul. Perhaps when dragons died, their souls went to the nearest person. He sighed and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes; it was too early in the morning to be pondering metaphysics.

  
“I don't... I don't know. I just know she hasn't woken up since.”

  
Valenya nodded. She heated the basin's water with a flame spell again, and straightened her robes before facing Amuril.

  
“I'm not an expert on such things, but I believe her soul is injured.” She held her hand up as Amuril's heart leapt into his throat. “-It's fine, she's still all there, but like the fractures it will take time to heal.”

  
Amuril ran his fingers through his hair. That dragon necromancer had soul trapped her... He exhaled, consoling himself with the facts. They had all survived, made it to the embassy. Irowe was in the surgeon's care now, and she would heal in time. They weren't in danger anymore.

  
“Are you sure you're alright?” Valenya questioned softly.

  
“As fine as one can be, after a battle like that. You said she had a draught, when will she-?”

  
“Before you do. Clean up and go to bed, you've had a long day. You can speak with her in the afternoon.” Valenya walked to another justiciar that was holding his head and led him to a chair. Amuril sat there, just watching Irowe’s chest rise and fall. She was breathing easier than at the lake, so much easier...

  
He squeezed her hand gently and promised that he’d return once he’d slept. There wasn’t anything more he could do for now. As he climbed the stairs his body reminded him that it’d been a day and a half since he’d last seen a bed. He didn’t bother bathing once he reached their room, and he only stripped off his boots before climbing into bed. If there was a small comfort to Irowe staying in the infirmary, it was having the double bed to himself for once.


	3. Legends and Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rudy chapter Rudy chapter RUDY CHAPTER!!
> 
> (I like writing Rulindil, can you tell?)

> _"The Dragonborn in Nord culture is the archetype of what a Nord should be. The Dragonborn Comes has been used to rally soldiers and to bring hope.”_
> 
> _\-- Songs of Skyrim_

* * *

  
SURGEON Curawen glanced over her shoulder at Emissary Rulindil, silently wishing for the seventeenth time that he would find some other place to stand as her assistants removed the bandages. Rulindil ignored her and focused on the increasingly wet rags around the patient’s face.

  
He was extremely young for an emissary at thirty-eight, and he owed his recent assignment to his natural talents and the patronage of the woman’s father, High Kinlord Vicarian. The mer would want all the facts available on what happened to her, including how severe her injuries were.

  
The assistant grabbed the basket of bandages and took them somewhere outside to clean them. Rulindil stepped up beside the bed and studied the sleeping justiciar. Only her face was uncovered, and her torso was completely bundled in linens which Curawen and another assistant began unraveling.

  
The burns were significant. If he was honest, he couldn’t tell what race she belonged to as there was no hint of gold skin to her face. Her skin was splotched red and pink, a few islands of white here and there on the cheeks and forehead where the damage was greatest. Her hair was singed and curled black from the heat of whatever struck her body. Even if her natural skin tone could miraculously recover, the surface of her skin was melted and pocketed with tiny ridges and hills.

  
It did not, to his confusion, look bubbled or peeled as one would expect from a conjurer’s burn. This was something larger, and much hotter. Rulindil frowned and looked to the clock on the wall; he was running out of time.

  
“Prognosis?” He demanded, stepping back and allowing the assistant to work on her left arm. Curawen studied the young woman before answering.

  
“She’ll live, but-”

  
“Scars?”

  
“Unfortunately-”

  
“Extent and severity?”

  
“If I may _finish_ , Emissary?” The older Altmer snapped. He blinked at her but halted his inquiry. It was important that common mer such as herself be reminded their place from time to time, he had learned that lesson from High Kinlord Vicarian.

  
Curawen shook her head and huffed. “Her face is badly wounded, and she has burns running from her neck down to her hands. She’ll be lucky to have feeling where the scars are.” She gestured to the semi-circle encompassing the woman’s arms and head. “The pattern is consistent with a ward failing; we’ve seen this sort of burn before but never this deep.”

  
Rulindil frowned. The infirmary staff had dealt with miscast spells ranging from failed conjurations to simple flames to incinerating infernos, as well as injuries from flame atronachs and runes. Accepting the surgeon’s word meant acknowledging that something more powerful existed.

  
“You are asking me to believe that _dragons_ exist.” Rulindil chided her.

  
Curawen wheeled on the Emissary. “If you are implying that _Master Malcior_ did this-”

  
“It is a possibility.”

  
From what he’d read of Master Malcior, he was an accomplished master wizard, having spent his life in one college or another to avoid responsibilities in Alinor. How he had even been _allowed_ in the Thalmor was a glaring oversight on the staff at the Cyrodiil Embassy, and he had written them as such on several occasions. Even to the laziest recruiter, he was an academic with Imperial sympathies and a bleeding heart: neither of which belonged in the Thalmor.

  
Irowe on the other hand, despite being the darling daughter of his patron, was a bit... stupid. She was far too impulsive and prone to reckless behavior, belying her unproven human heritage. When Rulindil heard that she was in the infirmary with burn wounds, his first thought was that she had darted out in front of her husband’s fireball and suffered the consequences.

  
Curawen opened her mouth to speak, no doubt in Master Malcior’s defense-

  
“When will she wake up?”

  
“Not for several hours. If you are _finished_ , Emissary?” She seethed, now thoroughly fed up with his interruptions. Rulindil bowed his head ever so slightly in her direction.

  
“For now.” He said and walked out the door of the infirmary.

  
The walk across the outer courtyard was as expected from the permanently frozen clime of the northern Druadachs. Rulindil skipped up the steps of the Solar; inside he walked past some courtier Elenwen had stranded yesterday in her haste to reach the border before the General. He pulled at the fingers of his gauntlets, stripping them off and unbuttoning his outer coat on the way to his bedroom.

  
“Excuse me, do you know when the Ambassador will-”

  
“Remove this woman to the _embassy_.” Rulindil called to the nearest guard. The Breton froze and stared in horror at the moonstone-clad soldier. “And see to it I’m not disturbed.”

  
“Yes, Emissary.”

  
“How dare you?! I am an affluent member of the Royal Court! I have important information about Thane Erikur’s business habits and the Rebellion! Unhand me, you cur! I am the wife of...”

  
Rulindil locked the door to his bedchambers and pulled the curtains to. He retrieved a small vial of purple liquid from a hidden cabinet. His outer robe he tossed over a chair before dabbing the liquid on a handkerchief. He took care to keep it away from his head until he was lying down on the bed. Rulindil grimaced and draped the handkerchief over his face; sleep took him quickly.

  
It was hazy and dark; screams and wails echoed from the nightmares of those around him. When he first came to this pocket of Quagmire as a child he thought the translucent spheres were ward bubbles scattered through a hazy plain, with an imposing fog in the distance anywhere he looked. He now knew these spheres were dreams, tiny worlds unto themselves, with a dreamer inside. By birthright and choice, he could enter these dreams and turn them into nightmares. He had to nightly in fact; the Prince had a tithe and she always collected one way or another.

  
Rulindil hurried along the thin paths between dreams, only stopping now and then to relocate himself. He passed another Dreamwalker, an older Altmer. She was sitting in on an Imperial’s nightmare, the man was sobbing on the ground of a burning farmhouse, crying out names to the fire. He kept going, looking for another mer among the dreams. It was still night back in Alinor, there was still time...

  
The next Dreamwalker he came across was a mer wizened white with age, his pale golden skin lit red from the scene before him. He turned to the newcomer, the centuries that left his face unscathed showed in the tired expression and his black eyes. High Kinlord Vicarian glanced briefly at his protégé before returning to the nightmare before them.

  
“Rulindil. I trust you have a reason for finding me here?”

  
“I do. Irowe is alive.” He prefaced. “She was attacked - if her husband is to be believed - by a dragon. She tried to use a ward against its fire breath but it failed.”

  
High Kinlord Vicarian’s white brows furrowed and peaked, making his eyes look wider. He straightened his black robes and brushed his nose.

  
“A dragon? Those things haven’t existed for millennia.”

  
Somewhere in the distance, as if through water, a man shrieked and wailed, his cries punctuating as he was struck by something.

  
“I am just as confused as you are, my lord. Unfortunately, this happened within the last twenty-four hours; Master Malcior’s report is all we have so far. I will of course keep you informed.”

  
“See that you do. When we have enough information I will take this before the Council.” He said with a grunt.

  
The old mer fussed with his robes, bored with the trauma he created. The young Altmer sobbed and the scene faded, the bubble evaporating as the dream ended. High Kinlord Vicarian sighed, the worry showing on his face.

  
“How is she?” He asked, knowing the woman’s mother would want to know.

  
“She’s in the infirmary and being cared for. The doctors are doing what they can but she will have scars for the rest of her life.” Rulindil said quietly.

  
High Kinlord Vicarian covered his face and breathed. The girl’s ama was a doting mother and grandmother, who would be devastated to hear of her daughter’s injuries so soon after losing her eldest son. He didn’t envy the High Kinlord’s responsibility when he awoke. High Kinlord Vicarian stroked his jaw and crossed his arms.

  
“Do you still have your Concealment primer? I will have a replacement sent to Skyrim-”

  
Rulindil stumbled and grabbed at his chest, reaching for his shoulders. The dark land winked from his sight and was replaced with a bright room, filtered through a purple-stained handkerchief. And a cowering justiciar’s shadow next to his bed.

  
“Emissary-”

  
“I told you not to disturb me!” Rulindil thundered as he flung the soaked fabric across the room. The Justiciar scampered back toward the safety of the door and stared at the ground, away from the glare of his black eyes.

  
“Em- Emissary Elenwen requests your presence, s-sir...” The mer snuck glances at the door, wondering how quickly he could run through it.

  
“Imbeciles...” Rulindil hissed under his breath and reached for his coat. He was sweating as he put it on; Vaermina would not be pleased at his sudden departure from Quagmire. The Prince had ways of punishing Dreamwalkers who shirked their tithe in her realm.

  
He focused on the Illusion spell that made his eyes, the evidence of his contract with the Prince, look mundane and yellow. The Justiciar would talk, but no one would take it for anything more than an exaggeration; it added to the ‘mysterious yet deadly’ aura he was trying to cultivate.

  
He stomped down the stairs and slammed the Solar door, muttering to himself about the failure to follow simple instructions. Rulindil threw the Embassy door open and walked down the hall to Elenwen’s office; Iachesar was already inside. Elenwen leaned forward on the table and flexed her fingers together.

  
“Rulindil. How good of you to join us.”

  
“This _is_ important?” He asked through clenched teeth.

  
Elenwen seemed to find unabashed glee in tormenting her young replacement at every opportunity. Frequent unnecessary summons - to discuss the local politics or remind him of an important prisoner’s arrival - were the most common form of harassment. Iachesar, if he noticed any of this, said nothing and kept to his reports. Neither of them knew of his familial contract with Vaermina, or that he regularly contacted Vicarians back in Alinor. He planned to keep it that way.

  
Elenwen gestured to the free chair and Rulindil reluctantly joined in the discussion. She detailed her account: after hearing of the attack from a legionnaire survivor her party left the nearest inn and backtracked to the Imperial town. It was completely destroyed, and there was no sign of the General or the Jarl, or the Justiciar unit sent to retrieve him. Iachesar produced the report he’d been working on; Rulindil corrected him now and then.

  
Elenwen thrummed her fingers on the desk once they had finished. “Where is this Master Malcior?”

  
“Probably still asleep.”

  
Rulindil made no comment. He specifically avoided looking for either of the couple in Quagmire; High Kinlord Vicarian took offense at Dreamwalkers walking in on the Malciors’ dreams.

  
“I want more details on the battle: what was effective, what wasn’t; weaknesses, strengths. We must know what reinforcements would work best if needed. Rulindil-”

  
“I have a new priority I assume.” He sighed.

  
The former Lead Inquisitor narrowed her eyes. “Dragons were once common here; I’ve overhead Nords talking about a _war_ with dragons in the Merethic Era. There must be legends or accounts from those times that could shed light on what we’re dealing with.”

  
The thought of Nords _writing_ in the Merethic Era was laughable. They were too busy killing each other or the Snow Elves to bother with sophisticated arts. However, if they _were_ writing, battle sagas were the most likely subject if any. He frowned. While men were prone to exaggeration, ‘war’ suggested a troubling amount of opposition.

  
“If they were common here, then there are a lot of dead dragons lying around for this necromancer to reanimate.”

  
“That is why we need information quickly.” She answered.

  
Iachesar flicked the report’s cover closed. “Weren’t the Blades called ‘the Dragonguard’ a long time ago?”

  
“After the sigil of the Dragonborn Emperors.” Rulindil sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. “Dragons haven’t existed for thousands of years; I doubt any remaining Blade would be much of a fight against a dragon.”

  
“Still. Make them a priority. They could still know something; fighting techniques or weaknesses, even if they don’t understand their history.”

  
“Almost a pity we killed all of them.” Iachesar smirked.

  
“ _Almost_ all of them, it can’t be a coincidence that most of them were heading for Skyrim.” Rulindil corrected his elder.

  
Iachesar crossed his arms. “Well, if we’re not ruling _anything_ out, it’s possible the Stormcloaks are involved with this dragon business.”

  
Rulindil stopped stroking his beard and clenched his hand into a fist. “ _No_. I would think some loose-lipped Nord would have mentioned a _pet dragon_ of all things hanging around the Palace of Kings-”

  
“It is however, highly coincidental that the dragon attacked the town where Ulfric was being held.” Elenwen interrupted with a raised eyebrow.

  
“ _Unlikely_ -”

  
“Yet possible.”

  
Rulindil rolled his eyes, but hidden behind his concealment spell the other emissaries saw nothing untoward from the mask of yellow irises. There was no way the Stormcloaks could hide something as important as a dragon - let alone a dragon necromancer - for very long. They would have trotted it out against the Legion months ago and promptly began burning the very country they were trying to ‘save’. Nords weren’t known for subtlety.

  
But as usual, neither of his superiors cared for his opinion.

  
“Another lead to follow up on: some of the Nords mentioned something about a dragonborn.” Elenwen said.

  
“I do hope they aren’t expecting the Septims to rise from the dead and save them.” Rulindil muttered. He didn’t mention how everything the other two said ended up as more work for him and his inquisitors. No doubt that was the intention and he refused to give them the satisfaction of riling him up.

  
“It is a cultural hero for them, and they seem to believe he’s in Skyrim right now to fight the dragons. I want him found.”

  
“Questioned?” Rulindil offered.

  
“That depends on whether he can be used or not, and how much he knows.”

  
He shrugged and wrote ‘dragonborn’ into his journal. A cultural hero that fought dragons would be easy enough to research with the right agents; easier than this ‘dragon war’ or the Blades.

  
“Perhaps I’m entirely cynical, but it almost sound like you _want_ these dragons gone.” Rulindil said.

  
Her lips thinned. “I have no issue with winged monsters devastating the Legion, Stormcloaks, or the usual inhabitants of the province. I take issue with them being a threat to the embassy. Besides, when Skyrim is ours we will have to deal with them sooner or later. I’d rather we had methods of doing so when the time arrives.”

  
Elenwen turned her attention to the papers and ignored the two mer. “You are dismissed.”

* * *

  
It was the Turdas of the equinox before the bandages came off for the last time. Amuril repeatedly told her that it wasn’t so bad, that he still loved her and he didn’t care that she looked different. That didn’t stop Irowe from crying anytime she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. That didn’t change the piteous or uncomfortable looks the other justiciars or even the servants gave her.

  
Irowe wasn’t deluded in thinking she’d been beautiful before - her mother was beautiful, she always knew she didn’t measure well against traditional Altmeri standards. Her face was too round, her cheekbones too soft, her nose too large, her hair a rare darker color; but now?

  
Now she was hideous; a misshapen rust colored mask would cover her face for the rest of her days. It would be weeks before her _eyebrows_ grew back for Mara’s love, and her hair was barely saved. Irowe had overheard a pair of servants gossiping by the stables that she was lucky she was already married with children: no one else would take her now. She retreated to her and Amuril’s room and cried into her pillow for a good half hour after that.

  
On Fredas she stayed in, trying (and failing) to write letters to their son Melucar, reassuring him that Ama was alright. He’d been born in this embassy, back when she worked at Northwatch as an inquisitor. They’d planned to raise him in Skyrim but her brother’s (and by proxy, her father’s) demand that their newborn be raised by her parents, she and Amuril traveled home to his aunts. The two elderly women were ecstatic to have another Malcior to continue the family name - and to finally meet Irowe - and took turns raising him with their own families.

  
There had been talk of Irowe retiring and staying with Melucar, but she had less incentive to return to the homeland than Amuril did. The Dominion was Dreamwalker territory, and she was not welcome there. No, the plan was in ___ she and Amuril would retire and retrieve Melucar from Alinor, and then they would return to Tamriel and travel. They didn’t know where, though there was talk of Cyrodiil and High Rock was always an option. It didn’t matter: as long as they were together that would be enough.

  
Amuril walked in and rummaged through their trunk, laying out an autumn-toned ensemble on the chair. Irowe chewed on the quill’s vane, wondering how to phrase ‘dragons attacking Skyrim’ without worrying the boy – or Amuril’s aunts. Amuril wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, leaning over slightly to read her current draft. She crinkled her nose. He had spent the morning in the practice yard and smelled like it.

  
“Come on.” He said, taking her papers and filing them away in the drawer.

  
“What?”

  
“You could use some fresh air.”

  
Irowe lowered her gaze to the ground. She hadn’t left the room because it was daylight outside, and just walking around yesterday had been too much for her emotions to handle. She wasn’t used to being stared at, not like this. It was going to take time to adjust to living with the scars, time she’d rather spend alone than being pitied.

  
“The air is breathable in here.” She muttered.

  
He chuckled and held her hand in his, a sentimental gesture at best as she’d lost most of her sense of touch from the shoulders down.

  
“I was wondering if my talented, beautiful wife-”

  
“Talented?” Irowe scoffed. “So you finally noticed.”

  
“You have several talents, Irowe, not the least of which is saving me from countless things that try to kill us in the wilds.”

  
“Well maybe if you’d pay more attention to your surroundings instead of a Dwarven ruin or ancient carving, you wouldn’t be attacked by the wildlife so often.”

  
Amuril’s mouth twitched. “Dwemer. _Dwemer_ ruin, we’ve discussed this...” He muttered, before forcing himself to ignore the transgression. “I was wondering if you would accompany me to the Skeever.”

  
She smirked and leaned back to look at him, orange eyes staring into yellow. “You’re _bathing_ first, right?”

  
Amuril chuckled and kissed her. “Yes, I promise to bathe before forcing you to walk to Solitude with me.”

  
Two hours later they were seated in a corner of the Winking Skeever, waiting for the meal to arrive. Irowe thumbed the edge of her cowl and glanced around at the other patrons. Their seats were nestled in a dim corner away from the fireplace, ovens and any lamps; Amuril extinguished the lamp on their table to make the shadows deeper. As long as she kept the cowl on and stayed out of the light, she felt comfortable being among other people. Curawen had mentioned using illusion magic to hide the scars if they continued bothering her, but Irowe disliked the idea of wasting magicka on personal vanity.

  
After minutes of prodding, Amuril successfully pulled off one of her gloves and passed the time just holding her bare hand. There were parts of her skin where she could feel his fingers, three knuckles and a septim-sized patch in the middle of her hand. His fingers felt like a stone skipping over water. It was different, and would take some getting used to. Irowe sighed. Along with several other things...

  
A group of four rowdy Nords sat down at the table next to them and she shrank back into the wall. They were guffawing at some joke neither of the mer understood, crying tears of laughter into their steins of mead. The only blond of the group stood up and placed his hands on the table with mocking severity.

  
“Got to thinking, maybe I’m the Dragonborn and I don’t know it yet.”

  
They all burst out laughing. One with a snake tattoo on his bicep chucked a piece of bread at the blond which landed in his mead. Irowe rolled her eyes.

  
“You don’t look like a dragon to me.” She muttered under her breath. To her surprise, the man turned his attention to her, wiping tears from his eyes.

  
“Not a _dragon_. Dragonborn.” Irowe fiddled with the hem of the cowl nervously, but none of them seemed to have noticed her face. Perhaps the lighting was darker than she thought. Either that or they were just really, _really_ drunk this early in the afternoon.

  
“What’s the difference?”

  
Amuril’s eyes lit up and he opened his mouth to explain-

  
“You wouldn’t understand, elf.” The man with a broken nose waved his hand at her. “It’s a Nord thing.”

  
Amuril huffed and trailed a finger down one of hers where the skin still had feeling. “A mortal blessed with Dragon Blood and the blessing of Akatosh. Their blood specifically was required to light the Dragonfires and keep Mundus safe from Oblivion’s influences.” He waved his hand. “In Skyrim however, the Dragonborn is merely a Nord hero who fights dragons.”

  
The broken nose man leaned over the back of his chair and pointed at his companion.

  
“Not _merely_ a Nord hero: one of the greatest heroes of all Skyrim! Tiber Septim was a dragonborn, so was Reman Cyrodiil. Now there’s a new one.”

  
“We hope.” The man with a snake tattoo muttered drily.

  
“He _is_ here. The Greybeards summoned him to High Hrothgar in Last Seed, so we’ll be hearing more of him soon enough.” The Nords turned back to their drinks and struck up another topic of conversation.

  
The innkeeper’s little daughter, Minette, walked over carrying two plates. One held two cups of clam chowder and horker stew with a small loaf nestled in between the bowls for dipping. The other was stacked so high with steamed mudcrab legs Irowe was impressed the little girl had carried it this far without dropping anything.

  
Minette pulled a bottle of spiced wine from a satchel on her hip. “Can I offer you a glass? It’s only ten septims.”

  
“Leave the bottle.” Amuril said, giving her a handful of septims. Minette beamed and filled their glasses, leaving the bottle in the middle between the two plates.

  
“Kynareth, we thank you for the food we are about to eat-”

  
“Blessings and mercies upon us.” Irowe finished and reached for a mudcrab leg.

  
Amuril snatched her hands back and held her, continuing to play tug-of-war with her as he finished praying and she tried to eat.

  
“ _And_ the animals that gave their lives to grace out table. Mara, we thank you for our family and- the wife who will not sit _still_.” Irowe grinned at that. “And Auri-El, we are grateful that my wife is now fifty, even if she refuses to act her age.”

  
Irowe froze. Was it... it was the 26th, wasn’t it?

  
“Blessings and mercies upon us.” Amuril finished, the hint of a smirk in his lips. He released her hands and they both grabbed at steamed legs, dropping them on their plates and exclaiming softly at how hot they were.

  
Amuril wagged a finger in her direction. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  
“I thought you had so I didn’t want to bring it up.” Irowe lied.

  
“I think that’s the first time I remembered your birthday and you didn’t.” Amuril smirked.

  
Irowe stuck her tongue out and unshelled a leg. He was right earlier; she did need this. Her thoughts drifted back to the other table’s conversation. She smiled and shook her head.

  
“I leave for _one month_ and suddenly-” Irowe swallowed. “Suddenly there’s a new _emperor_ in the province.”

  
“Now _there’s_ an idea.” One of the men behind her chuckled. “Might end this little rebellion of Ulfric’s. Wouldn’t that make him squirm, having the Dragonborn for an emperor?”

  
Amuril, ever the scholar, took the comment as an invitation. “You mentioned ‘Greybeards’ before, who are they?”

  
The Nords chuckled and elbowed each other. “Oh, you’ve heard them soon enough, unless you’re deaf. Everyone heard the _Thu’um_.”

  
“They live on the Throat of the World, near the peak. Sometimes they train those talented enough to walk the Way, but they _call_ the Dragonborn once they sense him.” The broken-nosed man cupped his hands around his mouth. “DOVAHKIIN!” He shouted across the inn.

  
The innkeeper's little girl yelled back at them to be quiet; her hands on her hips and scowled at her loud customers. The fourth man next to him winced and cleaned out his ears.

  
“Not in my ear, you oaf!”

  
“What did you say?” Irowe whispered. The man swallowed his mead and turned back to Irowe. “That word, what did you say?”

  
They stared at each other and then back at her. “ _Dovahkiin_.”

  
She felt the black dragon looming over her again, dark against the evening sky. She shivered and pulled her robes tighter for warmth. Now that the Nords mentioned it, it was the same word that issued from the mountain. These Greybeards.

  
“What does it mean?” Amuril inquired.

  
The broken nose man waved his arm dismissively. “It's just a word, Elf.”

  
“Dragonborn.” The blond informed them, earning a glare from his tablemates. He swallowed and elaborated. “It means dragonborn, in the dragon tongue.”

  
Irowe slumped in her chair. The dragon tongue, the language the dragons had been speaking, that she understood after Qonahmir died. The word the black dragon had said to her-

  
She blinked. How did she know the red dragon’s name was Qonahmir? How did she even know what that name meant? She had always pushed those memories from her mind before, but now her mind just filled it in for her as she was thinking.

  
The chowder, as good as it was, lost all taste to her.

  
“Dragon tongue? So they do have a language.” Amuril commented.

  
The blond Nord moved his chair closer to their table and rested his forearms on its back. Irowe inched her chair further into the corner. She didn’t want anyone to see her scars, for anyone to ask how she’d gotten them. She wanted him to go away - for everyone to stop talking about dragons - but she couldn't think of a way to do so without attracting attention.

  
“Aye: the Thu’um. The Dragonborn can speak it too.”

  
“But why is he called 'dragonborn' if he’s a Nord? I’d think that’d be an Imperial title.”

  
The snake tattooed man rolled his eyes. “The Dragonborn is born with the blood of a dragon. That’s how he can Shout in the dragon tongue.”

  
The broken nose man leaned back and faced his friend. “No, it’s the _soul_ of a dragon, because he can take a dragon’s soul when he kills it.”

  
“It’s the blood because the dragonfires-”

  
“He eats their soul! How can he do that with just blood? It has to be a dragon’s soul...”

  
Amuril blanched. The men continued arguing and he shifted his gaze to Irowe. She swallowed and adjusted her napkin.

  
“The dragon’s soul,” Amuril asked, quieting the debate. “Is it a bright light?”

  
“How in Oblivion should I know? I’m a guard, not a dragonslayer!” The man yelled slamming his hand down on his chair. The tattooed man put an arm on the irate Nord.

  
“Calm down, Ristlaf.”

  
“Yeah, drink your mead.”

  
Minette was once again glaring at the two tables from behind the bar. The burly man harrumphed and turned back to face his table. Irowe scraped her chair back and walked briskly to the door, knocking her glass over.

  
“Irowe-”

  
She pushed the door open to Solitude proper and glanced around for an alley to cry in. There were a million reasons why it couldn’t be true, it was just some story and it was impossible... She ducked behind barrels of fruit and grain as her chest started heaving. It couldn’t be true, she repeated to herself as she slid down the wall to the ground. It couldn’t be true...

  
Amuril burst out of the door and looked around, finally finding her. He walked over and knelt next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Irowe clawed at the cowl and covered her eyes as it doubled for a handkerchief.

  
“Irowe, Irowe, calm down. I- I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything-”

  
“It _doesn’t_?” Her breath came ragged as her body couldn’t decide whether to continue crying or talking. “I guess Qonahmir’s soul just went to me because I was closest. I guess I just magically understood that dragon because it was _standing on top of me_.” Her voice cracked and she buried her face again.

  
Amuril’s hand left her shoulder shakily. “What are you talking about? How do you know the dragon’s name?”

  
“The other dragon said it, when it...” She started crying again as her memories conjured the dragon up again. The Shout, the pain, it all came back. Irowe held a hand to her chest to try and make the phantom ache stop. She swallowed and tried to quiet herself.

  
“After the dragon died and that light... I understood what the black dragon was saying, or trying to say. I don’t know...” She held her head. “I didn’t remember an hour ago, none of this made sense, none of it _mattered_...”

  
Amuril wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his chest, just holding her there and letting her cry.

  
“Valenya did say your soul was injured when we brought you in. If you... absorbed the dragon's soul and the other dragon tore it out...” He swallowed and held her tighter.

  
“Irowe.” Amuril held her head and started stroking her back. He cupped her head in his palms. “Irowe, a rumor isn’t something you should be worrying about. Alright?” Amuril leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together. “ _Please_ don’t worry about this. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  
He stroked her hair and arm until the tears quieted, their dinner only remembered hours later after they returned to the Embassy.


	4. Blood and Blasphemy

> _Each Justiciar unit is assigned to one hold for four weeks, with the newest unit being the junior and the unit returning to the Embassy as the senior managing assignments within the hold. The fifth week is spent guarding the Embassy and resting for another assignment._
> 
> _\-- Justiciar Operations Manual: Skyrim, 4th Edition  
>  _

* * *

  
FALKREATH was the most coveted hold to be assigned to due to its perennial temperate climate, even if it was always humid as well. Normally the Malciors would camp on the lake the first night and reach the city the next afternoon.

  
Normally.

  
Echoing roars across Whiterun's tundra scared everyone including the horses, and the trio arrived at the wall-less city's 'gate' two hours after dark: damp, hungry, and irritable. The horses were even worse, but that was nothing a spell at the tavern or its stables couldn't fix.

  
The other occupants eyed their soaked justiciar uniforms and elven armor warily, glancing from the elves to each other and down to their drinks. It wasn't like they would be able to arrest anyone; most Nords weren't stupid enough to profess their love of Talos in earshot of Justiciars. Well, the sober ones anyway.

  
Amuril caught sight of the hold's current senior Justiciar by the alchemy equipment in a corner, and sat at her table. Fallon bought an ale from the wait staff and poked his head around the open rooms, trying to decide which one to rent for the night. Irowe smoothed her damp robes and took a seat by the firepits. Hopefully Amuril would be done with his briefing from Sironya soon and they could retire to a room.

  
After her birthday dinner, she wasn't fond of spending time in public she didn't have to. She had caved and seen Curawen about the concealment spell she mentioned, and still carried the Concealment primer in her pack. It wasn’t a difficult spell to learn, but she couldn’t cast it long if she was covering her entire face, so the cowl of her robes was a blessing.

  
It was just a soft suggestion to those nearby that she was perfectly normal. Curawen insisted her skill in the spell would increase to the point where she barely noticed its drain on her magicka. At the moment it was felt like holding her breath, and she had to face the ground or a wall every few minutes to breathe.

  
Irowe spotted Edelasil in the corner nursing a pipe, and if she turned around she could see Xarxes cleaning his armor on a bed. Both were in plain clothes, though by the berth the other patrons gave them they might as well have been wearing their robes and armor. Xarxes called to Fallon in Altmeris and the archer reluctantly joined him in the room. Irowe watched them, finding nothing else interesting to focus on, though when Fallon noticed her he shut the door.

  
Irowe sighed and looked over to Amuril. His discussion with the other lead was taking longer than usual. It was Loredas: the senior unit should be on the road to Emissary Iachesar by now, with the next unit in rotation taking the senior role. She couldn’t remember spending more than twenty-five days in an assigned hold. She sighed; Amuril should have been done by now...

  
Irowe plodded over to the counter and cleared her throat. “A bowl of soup please.”

  
The innkeeper took the proffered two decims and retreated to the back. Irowe glanced over at Amuril and Sironya now and then hoping they'd wrap things up soon. The innkeeper poured a bowl and set it down audibly.

  
“Thanks...” Irowe muttered, her lip turning at the corners as burnt bits of venison bubbled up in the broth. Nordic hospitality...

  
An old man in once-fine robes had taken her chair by the fire, muttering about the damp. Irowe’s shoulders slumped and she took the only other available seat, next to a tableful of Nords. With the bard on his dinner break there wasn’t much else to listen to but the conversations in earshot.

  
One man with a blue facial tattoo pointed a finger at his companions. “I've a brother in Ivarstead, at the foot. Says there's a lot of disappointed pilgrims coming down the Steps these days.”

  
“Aww, did the Greybeards tell them they're not dragonborn?” The Redguard of the group spit into a mug in the center of their table, adjusting the scimitar on his belt.

  
Irowe frowned and focused on her soup. It seemed everyone was an expert on dragons these days, and every third Nord a dragonborn loremaster. Couldn’t they find something else to talk about? The ever-present damp perhaps? Or the rebellion? Mudcrabs?

  
“If you ask me,” A loud and very drunk Nord lass said. “The Dragonborn knows who he is.”

  
Irowe paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth.

  
“How's that?” One of the men asked the question she was wondering.

  
The lass slammed an empty mug on the table. “Because they wouldn't call a _baby_. So obviously he did something dragonborn...” She waved the mug as the sentence got away from her. “... ish, to get their attention.”

  
“Like killing a dragon!” A stick of a Breton piped up a little too loudly for everyone else’s comfort. The other patrons shot hateful looks at the table, as if mentioning the beasts would summon one.

  
“Don't be an idiot. No one’s killed a dragon yet or we'd have heard about it.”

  
Someone chuckled as they walked towards the noisy table. “On the contrary, _she's_ killed a dragon. I suppose by that logic she must be this Dragonborn, shouldn't she?” Edelasil said placing his hands on Irowe’s shoulders.

  
The Nords turned round and the tavern noise died down until the firepit was the loudest sound in the place. Amuril and Sironya sat up straighter in the back, watching what their seconds were doing.

  
“Is that true, elf?” The Redguard at the table asked.

  
Irowe stirred her soup and focused on not laying the mer out cold, as much as she would like to. “You say that like I was the only one there.” She said through gritted teeth, wondering why he’d bother bringing it up.

  
Edelasil hemmed and moved his hands to the back of the chair. Irowe turned her attention back to the enthralled table.

  
“So? I helped kill a dragon. That’s all I did. I think I’d remember taking a dragon’s soul or other such nonsense.”

  
Back in the tavern’s corner Amuril’s mouth twitched. He’d known her for twenty years, long enough to tell when she was lying. It wasn’t that difficult, she was a terrible liar. Thankfully, the ones paying the most attention were too drunk to notice, Edelasil included.

  
The Nord woman shot up from the table’s bench and placed shaking fists on the table. “You take that back. The Dragonborn is not _nonsense_.” She said darkly before glowering at Edelasil. “And he can’t be an elf!”

  
“Anyone who runs around shouting at dragons is hardly sane.” Edelasil commented, crossing his arms. “And there’s nothing in your legends that says it _has_ to be a Nord, anyone can learn this Voice just as anyone can learn civilized magic.”

  
“The Dragonborn has always been a Nord! Not some milk-drinking _elf_!” She cried, as if the very notion was causing her physical pain.

  
“Uh...” The skinny Breton cleared his throat. “Reman was Imperial by St. Alessia-”

  
“ _Reman came from a hill and doesn’t count!_ ” The lass roared.

  
Irowe glanced around at the other patrons: a couple and their young daughter exited the tavern door into the light rain. A few other customers looked ready to follow the family. Most of them looked unhappy with the angry Nord for causing a stir, or maybe it was for attracting the Justiciars’ attention.

  
Irowe reluctantly agreed with the rest of the inn: she’d had a long day and she’d rather it didn’t end in a shouting match or worse. If Edelasil wanted to continue that was his business.

  
“Get back here, Elf! Where do you think you’re going?”

  
“Someplace _quiet_.” Irowe snapped, pushing the door open.

  
“ _Coward-!_ ”

  
Irowe slammed the door shut and looked around. Stepping outside was like smacking her face into a soaked towel, but as she’d told the Nord, at least it was quiet save the downpour. She sat down on the patio deck and cradled the bowl of soup in her lap, watching the clouds and the rain and the forest beyond the gate.

  
The tavern inside seemed so far away now, a distant memory barely audible behind her. She exhaled and continued eating her soup. It was easier to ignore the burnt bits and appreciate its warmth outside in the cold night air. It was nearly gone when the door opened and the drunk Nord barged out onto the porch.

  
“Ysotte!”

  
“Ysotte, ya milk-drinker, come back-”

  
She slammed the door and shut them out, stomping down the steps into the rain. Irowe almost felt sorry for the Nord; perhaps she had been too drunk to realize an intellectual debate with somewhat-sober Justiciars would end poorly. Irowe set her spoon down. This Nord did seem to know more about the Dragonborn than most others...

  
“Ysotte, is it?”

  
Blonde hair whipped around as she glowered at Irowe, insulted that the Justiciar would use her name. Her eyes were puffy and damp from tears as well as the rain. Irowe paused a moment, trying to find words that wouldn’t offend her outright. The only question she could think of was one that had been eating at her for some time.

  
“Would it be so bad, if the Dragonborn was an elf?”

  
Ysotte stood there a moment, the rain drenching her furs. She walked back and rested her arms on the railing.

  
“No true Nord would follow you, no matter what illusions you people come up with. You can trick our eyes, but not our hearts.” White knuckles gripped the top rail. “You think there are no worthy Nords; that the gods would turn to some outsider before any of us?” She turned and spit onto the steps before glaring back at Irowe.

  
“The real Dragonborn is out there somewhere, and he will save Skyrim from the dragons, from this war, and from _you_.”

  
With that she turned and left, her boots splashing through puddles towards the heart of town until she faded in with the mist. Irowe shrugged and finished eating her soup. She knew that discussion would end poorly, but she’d still hoped to get some information out of it. She couldn’t quite quiet her mind of all the things she’d heard and worried about with this Dragonborn, but the rain helped.

  
It didn’t matter, none of it mattered.

  
She scraped the bottom of the bowl and reconsidered the question she’d last asked Ysotte, asking it of herself this time. Would it really be so bad if she was this Dragonborn character? What was it about being dragonborn that frightened her?

  
Admittedly, the dragons were terrifying, but not the worst of it. The Dragonborn was capable of handling them, though she wasn’t keen on practicing that often. Irowe had never liked Nords much either: brash, arrogant, backwards men. The idea of being a hero of theirs was disgusting, though she knew they felt the same about the matter. No, the disquiet she felt came from the ‘birth’ part of ‘dragonborn’.

  
In Skyrim she was Irowe Malcior, a few mer in Cyrodiil and those back in Alinor knew her family name - back when she had one - was Vicarian. Only five people knew she had no natural right to that name- six, if her actual father was still alive. She and Amuril knew of course, and Ama was three. The mer everyone assumed was her father was a fourth, and Sinderis, her half-brother, was the fifth. However, if the mer back home learned she was dragonborn and asked questions...

  
Was that what happened then? Ama grew tired of father and met some... Nord, and that’s where she came from? It was possible: men were still allowed on Alinor at that time, the Thalmor hadn’t quite barred them from the isles sixty years ago. Still... She’d always thought it’d been someone from the Temple of Auri-El, with her mother being a priestess there... She’d always thought her father was an Altmer...

  
She frowned and looked around as the hair on the nape of her neck prickled. It felt like she was being watched, stalked almost. This wasn’t the first time today she’d had that feeling either, it’d gnawed at her stomach the entire ride to Falkreath. It was like someone was scrying for her, something sinister-

  
“You alright?”

  
Irowe turned to face Amuril as he shut the door behind him quietly. The feeling continued worrying at her, but shrunk down to a general unease. Amuril must have finished his briefing with Sironya, although knowing him he could have cut it short to come check on her.

  
“I didn’t care for the conversation.” Amuril hummed and pulled her close.

  
She knew what he was thinking about - it had been on both their minds since her birthday - but she couldn’t tell which way his mind was leaning. It was easy for him to dismiss the Dragonborn business as superstition and coincidences, even knowing everything she did. She wished it was as easy for her.

  
“So why did Sironya take so long?” Irowe asked, hoping to change the subject.

  
Amuril exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “Orsino's unit hasn't reported in for two weeks. Last she heard, they were looking into a Talos shrine in the lake region.”

  
“Oh not Sanyon’s _ghost shrine_.” Irowe pleaded to the Aedra.

  
The former Justiciar had held onto his belief in some Talos shrine near Ilinalta Lake so fanatically that Iachesar had to escalate the matter to Elenwen. She told the Altmer in no uncertain terms that he had two choices: drop the shrine nonsense or leave the service. He chose the latter, vowing to find physical proof of the shrine and bring it back to the emissaries.

  
That was back in First Seed.

  
He'd become something of a local ghost to the units assigned to Falkreath, and their own unit had run into him once during a summer storm, taken shelter in an abandoned shack he'd claimed as his own. He wasn’t the same mer he had been a year ago: he’d lost his mind looking for invisible Talos worshippers.

  
“Please tell me we’re not helping that lunatic.” Irowe pleaded.

  
“We’re _not_. We’re looking for Orsino’s unit. And Talos worshippers, if there are any.” He added, although neither of them ever put much effort into finding the latter. They stayed out a few minutes longer watching the rain and the forest beyond town, but finally retired to bed for an early start tomorrow.

* * *

  
Amuril faintly heard the sounds of the inn’s staff preparing for the Sundas rush after temple. It smelled like breakfast too; fried eggs, fresh bread, smoked fish... He groaned. Nine years in Skyrim, and he still couldn’t understand how the Nords stomached _fish_ for breakfast.

  
He rolled over and reached out to hold Irowe... his hand touched empty blankets. Amuril sighed and tucked the spare pillow to his chest, burying his face in it. He hated curling up with pillows in the morning instead of his wife almost as much as he hated getting out of bed. Amuril inhaled and grumbled into the cushion; the lingering scent of her hair on the linen was no substitute for the real thing.

  
A servant screeched before something clanged on the floor, even on the bed he could feel the vibration.

  
“You idiot girl!” The publican shouted from the kitchen. “Look what you did- You ruined the roast! Clumsy oaf- Use the apron to grab it next time...!”

  
Amuril exhaled and dug around in the chest at the foot of the bed for a set of clothes to wear. Now was as good a time to get out of bed as any.

  
Once dressed, he glanced around the inn; a few residents were quietly eating breakfast or nursing hangovers at the tables. Xarxes was joking quietly with Fallon in the corner, sitting with the Bosmer in his lap. Xarxes leaned over and stole a bite of salmon, kissing Fallon on the nose. Edelasil was one of the ones regretting the drink last night, and Sironya was packing in her room. Irowe wasn’t in sight.

  
Amuril tucked his hands behind his back and walked outside, grateful that the smell of pungent fish didn’t follow him far. Irowe was standing at the porch railing looking northeast; the distant Throat of the World just visible over the top of the jarl’s longhouse.

  
“Irowe?”

  
She barely turned when he called her name, staring instead at the floorboards. His heart dipped. Amuril wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulders. They rarely spoke about the subject, at least directly, but he knew it was eating at her. The discussion last night did _not_ help.

  
He exhaled and focused on holding her, just breathing. He ran from performing his ‘duty to the family’ as the last Malcior when he was younger. He ran from the war as much as he could, until it came to him. He ran from Hammerfell out of shame and guilt after the war ended. He was good at running, and it solved a lot of problems.

  
But he and Irowe had been running from this dragon business for near two months now. Things hadn’t gotten better; if anything, they were worse. He wasn’t sure if their suspicions were true or not, but he _was_ sure things would not get better until they knew for certain whether she was or was not this... Dragonborn person.

  
“Go talk to these bearded men.” Amuril mumbled into her neck. “They’ll settle this for you, and you can help us find Orsino’s unit when you get back.”

  
Irowe turned and stared at him. “You’re sure?” She asked.

  
He wasn’t; he most certainly was not thrilled at the thought of his wife traveling alone through Stormcloak and dragon territory, even if it was safer for her to go alone. He did however know it would put any doubts to rest, and hopefully give him his wife back.

  
“We’ll stay down here and look for Orsino’s unit, just try to return before we find them, understand?”

  
She rolled her eyes and nodded, the beginnings of a grin creeping into her face. “I'll meet you on the south shore in a few days then. Oh! I should go pack, just a light kit...” Irowe kissed him goodbye and hurried to their room.

  
Amuril looked over the longhouse to the northeast where the Snow-Throat towered over the Shriekwinds and even the Jeralls the town was nestled in.

  
“Please bring her back safely, in one piece with a sound mind...” He murmured to any deity that was listening.

  
Irowe closed the inn door behind her, now clad in mage’s travelling robes and hood, with a thick parka and gear tucked into a knapsack. They embraced one last time before she snuck off up the eastern road towards the Throat, through Helgen.

  
Fallon walked out quietly and sat on the porch railing, biting his cheek as he watched Irowe leave.

  
“So what are we doing?” He asked once Irowe was out of sight. As little tact as the Bosmer had, Amuril was grateful he understood this once to keep any thoughts he had to himself.

  
“We have orders to find Orsino’s unit. They were investigating Sanyon’s ghost shrine-”

  
“What?! Are you _serious_? We’re going to be looking for the next century!”

  
Amuril shrugged. “Those are our orders. Irowe will join us after she’s finished.”

  
Fallon groaned and leaned back, tumbling down to a roll and climbing to his feet. He huffed and sat down on the bench, crossing his arms and sulking. No amount of grousing would change Sironya’s instructions however, so they packed up their gear and set out for the lake.

  
“If we’re lucky, we’ll run into them on the roads.” Amuril adjusted a shoulder strap so his pack was at least not digging into his shoulders. Apparently ‘up and back’ to his wife meant ‘take only what you need, I’ll carry the rest’. They would _discuss_ this when she returned from the mountain.

  
“If we’re lucky we won’t run into Sanyon...” Fallon muttered under his breath.


	5. High Hrothgar

> _Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned_
> 
> _The 17 disputants could not shout Him down_
> 
> _Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World_

* * *

  
CLIMBING the 7000 Steps, Irowe decided, was some sort of endurance test. If you could make it up all the stairs - past the frost trolls, and the wolves, and the goats that had made it their purpose in life to head-butt the shins of all pilgrims - you were worthy of speaking with the Greybeards.

  
She _was_ fit - she had more muscles than anyone else at the Embassy anyway - but this mountain made her feel like a plump Imperial courtier. At least she didn’t have to climb the whole thing: that was a blessing. Irowe sat down next to the last of the stone plaques and just stared out across the north of Skyrim gasping for air.

  
High Hrothgar certainly earned its name, no doubt being the highest building in all Tamriel a three-fourths of the way up the Throat. It was an ancient stone structure, more of a bulwark than a monastery, with the edgemost tower jutting out from the rocks hundreds of feet below. The only way further up the mountain was through two sets of curving stairs leading up to carved stone doors.

  
One of the locals in the town at the foot said the reclusive monks worshiped the Nordic goddess Kyne, or her sanitized Cyrodiilic counterpart Kynareth. They certainly were close to her realm, being up so high that the wind and snow never ceased.

  
Irowe exhaled shakily as her breathing steadied. At least it was something to say she’d done once they retired to civilization, climbing the highest mountain in all of Tamriel. Although, Irowe considered as she glanced further up the mountain, the Nord temple was nowhere near the peak. Looking up logically led to looking down and she moaned. She was _not_ looking forward to walking back down.

  
Once her legs and lower back felt the same temperature as the snow around her she stood up and stretched. She prayed these Greybeards wouldn’t mind a dragonborn hopeful borrowing a bed for a few hours. Or the night.

  
Irowe stopped before touching the door and walked back to the landing. She felt something watching her, and Kynareth herself help the poor animal that was trying to stalk her. She’d had enough of trolls, enough of wolves, and she was going to _punt_ the next goat she saw into Whiterun Hold. The feeling went away, almost as if it sensed her malice. Definitely a goat.

  
“Hello?” Irowe called out as she opened the door. Her voice echoed against the dark stone walls without a response. Irowe swallowed and walked into what she assumed was the main chamber. The light streaming in from the roof only made the shadows deeper, and she couldn't make out anything in them.

  
Further inside there were a few braziers with glowing embers scattered around the room, and two around a large square diamond underneath the main skylight. She could barely make out two hallways running perpendicular to the main chamber; one that ended abruptly and intersected the diamond heart of the main chamber, and another at its far end past a flight of stairs. Beyond the stairs and the hallway were several doors, no doubt leading to a back courtyard and a trail to the peak. The only ornamentations she could see that _weren't_ stonework were a few tattered banners hanging from the ceiling. The banners bore a few angular symbols, never more than three strokes to each one.

  
Irowe unslung her pack and placed it by what looked like a bench, the missing weight making her arms feel fifty pounds lighter. She had expected these monks to... well _expect_ her. So if they weren't... maybe she wasn't the Dragonborn. Hopefully she wasn't. She still wanted their hospitality however: a fire and maybe a bed.

  
“Hello?”

  
Still silence. Perhaps they only showed themselves to the Dragonborn; the man by the bridge had mentioned that he’d made food deliveries for years and never seen them. Irowe peered up at the angle of the sunlight; it was just past midday. She could conceivably make it to the town at the foot, and she’d spent last night at the inn so she knew what would await her there. The more she thought about it, the more a roaring hearth and warm food called to her. Irowe gestured over her shoulder and started retreating to the door.

  
“Well um... Thank you but I'll be going now. It is a _long_ way down the mountain and it’ll be getting dark by the time-”

  
A loud whisper rumbled through the corridors and the stone door obeyed, swinging shut in front of her. Irowe wheeled around and stifled a scream as she saw an old man in grey hooded robes standing behind her.

  
“Where- where did you come from?!”

  
“Have you come to test your Thu’um, traveler?” Another old monk asked, stepping into the sunlit diamond in the main chamber. His long beard was streaked with white and tied in a knot, much longer than the black-speckled scruff of the first monk. Two more gathered just outside the shadows; that made four of them.

  
“I- I don’t know. I...” She swallowed. “I heard you were looking for the Dragonborn?”

  
He nodded slightly and gestured towards the center of the chamber. “Come into the light.”

  
He stepped back so she was the only one in the center, the others gathered at the corners. Irowe thumbed the fur of her hood and did as she was told, pulling it down to reveal her scarred face and ears. She glanced around nervously. She almost wished they would laugh at her or tell her to leave, an Altmer of all races asking if she was the Dragonborn. It looked like they were taking her claim seriously, she noticed with unease.

  
The monk folded his hands into his long sleeves. “If you are the Dragonborn, you can Shout, in the dragon tongue. Do you know any words in the dragon tongue?”

  
“Uh, I- I don’t think so.” Irowe offered hesitantly. She’d heard words in the dragon tongue but she couldn’t pick out what any individual word meant.

  
The monk nodded slowly. “Master Einarth will share with you the word ‘Fus’. Use it, if you can.”

  
The monk to her right stepped back and placed a hand to his mouth. The word rolled off his tongue and - what in Tamriel...? The ground cracked as scratches broke into the stones, glowing brightly. The word 'fus' she presumed, in a... primitive alphabet. Her skin bristled as she realized it looked about the right size and shape for a dragon to carve those marks. Dragons had an alphabet? She smiled at the thought of some dragon writing in this script, trying to carve the marks into a mountainside...

  
“What does the word mean?”

  
“If you are dragonborn, you will know.”

  
Irowe frowned and concentrated on the word etched in the stone. It meant something, all words did. Something she could shout, like the dragons could shout. Fire or soul tear, something... She whispered the word to herself, hoping its meaning would come to her with a little pronunciation. Or maybe that wasn't how it worked. Maybe all she had to do was shout the word.

  
“Fus!” Irowe yelled as loud as she could, her voice echoing off the ancient stones. ... Nothing happened. She hadn't breathed fire or summoned some creature from Oblivion. Nothing had changed at all. Well that wasn’t true; her face was hot from embarrassment.

  
She coughed into her hand. “Ahem. How long is this supposed to take?”

  
“For the Dragonborn, only a moment. Others, it takes years to master a word.”

  
She frowned and reminded herself not to insult the aged Nord back as her pride took a hit. It took her a moment to realize what they were implying.

  
“So...” She started, hating to hope this was true in case it wasn't. “So I’m _not_ the Dragonborn?”

  
He nodded slowly. “It would appear.”

  
Stars, she was going to cry. She bowed her head gratefully.

  
“Thank you, I’m sorry for wasting your time then.”

  
The master monk nodded and the four turned back to the depths of the monastery, disappearing into the darkness. She decided then and there that she was spending the night at the inn, and _skipping_ all the way back to Falkreath in the morning. Irowe stopped and grabbed her pack, barely noticing the additional weight. Amuril would be so smug when she told him but she didn't care. She giggled and shut the door behind her. He was right of course; she had been worrying over nothing...

  
The smile died on her lips when she looked west down the mountain. Qonahmir was standing in the snow with its clawed wings on the landing’s steps.

  
“Oh my-”

  
“ _Yol Toor Shul!_ ”

  
Irowe snapped the door open and slid inside, slamming it shut as the fire poured through the gap. She searched the corridor but couldn't find any way to lock it, nothing to bar the door with. Qonahmir headbutted the door open and she flew forward, its clawed wings scraping the stone floor. Irowe backpedaled and retreated to the main chamber where the Greybeards now stood in a crescent facing her and the dragon. Three of them looked indignant about the beast attacking their monastery, all except the master monk.

  
“There’s a dragon! There’s a dragon outside!” She whirled around and pointed wildly, despite knowing they could hear it and almost see its nose.

  
The stone door slammed against the walls and Qonahmir's head snaked down the corridor, only stopping when its body outside couldn't fit through the entryway. It roared angrily and tried to claw a few extra feet from the floor. Now the greybeards moved, but only far enough to step out of the dragon's path.

  
“ _Dovahkiin_!” The dragon began before spewing a litany of angry words at the Altmer, the Greybeards, the fort and especially the doors restraining it. Dovahkiin? But she wasn't the Dragonborn, the Greybeards had said so. The Greybeards just stood there, watching the dragon try to enter the main hall.

  
“Do something!” She shouted at them.

  
“Dovahkiin.” One of the Greybeards bowed his head as tendrils of magical light arched from the Nord twenty years her junior to her body. The act weakened him and he stumbled, but smiled faintly as he returned to his feet.

  
Qonahmir continued shouting in the dragon tongue, but the words seemed so far away. Slowly they came into focus.

  
“... Dovahkiin! Nikriin! Krif zu'u! Koraav wen Thu'um los mul nu!”

  
Qonahmir quieted as Irowe walked over to stand in front of it. Her arms were shaking as she tossed her pack to the relative safety of the far wall. A toothy grin crept over its crimson scales.

  
“ _Yol Toor_ -”

  
“ _Fus!_ ” Irowe Shouted, throwing the dragon off-guard and knocking its head back a few yards. Qonahmir snarled and reared its head as high as the ceiling would let it.

  
“ _Yol Toor_ -”

  
“ _Fus!_ ” Irowe yelled again, charging forward and conjuring dual axes. Qonahmir withdrew from the corridor, remembering the last time it had tasted the bound battleaxes.

  
Outside on the snow they circled each other, though Irowe had to sprint to keep even with her opponent. Qonahmir roared and lumbered forward-

  
Irowe advanced as well, Shouting the only word she knew. The red dragon’s chest was pushed back by the Shout as she dove underneath its belly- Qonahmir leapt off the ground into the air, diving off the mountain down below the clouds. Irowe scrambled to her feet and dispelled her axes.

  
A blur of red soared past and she hurled a thunderbolt at it. Qonahmir snarled and circled east around the mountain’s peak. Irowe charged another bolt and waited, turning to face south, then northeast towards the fort, then south again. She glanced up towards the peak, wondering if maybe the dragon would come straight down towards her-

  
Irowe whirled around as a roar echoed across the rocks. The bolt surged out- and another and another. Hopefully she could bring it down before-

  
Qonahmir roared and wheeled away, darting through the cloud cover away from the shock spells and out of sight again. Irowe growled but held back her shots. It had taken a lightning storm and several thunderbolts to bring the dragon down before, and she’d spent the entire trek from Falkreath fending off wildlife. Irowe had maybe two shots left in her if she still wanted to summon a bound weapon.

  
She doubted she could _kill_ the dragon with the force shout, and the only other weapon she had was a dagger. The magicka potions she had brought up the mountain were still in her pack, inside High Hrothgar, and she was an _idiot_ for not grabbing them earlier.

  
Irowe glanced over to the broken doors and back to the skies. She could run back inside-

  
The dragon swooped up the slope of the mountain and dove to the ground, knocking Irowe on her back. Qonahmir pushed itself back onto its hind legs with its wings, beating the air and pinning her to the snowy steps with the force of it. She strained but couldn’t move her arms or legs.

  
Qonahmir grinned, its tail flicking back and forth off the cliff’s edge in time with its wings. Trapped underneath a dragon, like at Helgen, and Qonahmir understood the memories it was dredging up. They had shared souls for a few moments after all; they both knew her wards wouldn’t withstand dragonsfire.

  
“ _Yol Toor Shul-!_ ”

  
Irowe twisted her hands so her palms faced the dragon and poured everything she had into a stream of lightning. Shock magic crackled all around them and the red dragon roared in pain, the beat of its wings faltered. Irowe kept going, climbing to her knees and then her feet and forcing the dragon back.

  
The sparks sputtered and died.

  
Irowe glanced down at her hands and back up to the dragon-

  
She yelped and rolled out of the way as the dragon’s neck dropped to the snow. Irowe snapped to her feet and drew the elven knife at her hip. Maybe she could use the shout to throw it off and... start stabbing it with a blade a fingertip longer than her hand. Like that had _any_ hope of working.

  
Qonahmir’s body shuddered and she jumped back, ready to rush forward... Irowe saw that the dragon’s mouth was lolled against the snow, snow that was slowly turning black. She swallowed and stepped forward, holding the blade in front of her. Its chest was still moving, barely.

  
Irowe gripped the knife handle tighter. The blood was still pooling from its mouth and it hadn’t moved, so Irowe forced herself to advance. She had a close-quarters weapon, she _had_ to advance. Qonahmir’s left eye followed her as she walked around its head, keeping far away from its jaws. Its left wing scraped the ground awkwardly, and she could see the tip of a bone protruding from the joint.

  
A cough rattled its broken frame. “Pruzah... krif... Dovahkiin...” Qonahmir rasped, the air hissing from its lungs.

  
The light went from its eyes as streams of light swirled around her and the whispers returned. Irowe sheathed the knife on her belt as the red scales once again slid to the ground and the dragon’s flesh melted into the air. The whispers grew louder, but it wasn’t as angry as it had been last time. It was almost... sulking. Irowe smirked.

  
The dragon skeleton shuddered and settled into the snow on the edge of the mountainside. Irowe turned towards the fort where a huddle of robed figures stood on the steps, hands cloaked in grey sleeves. Her smile faded as the implications of their duel returned to her, a faint scraping sound only adding to her agitation. Qonahmir dissuaded her from leaving; the other dragons would hear of its defeat and Alduin would send more after her. She would need all the training the Greybeards - and Qonahmir, it added a little too smugly - could offer.

  
She brushed snow and frozen dirt off her robes and walked over to them-

  
Her head snapped around as the dragon inside her realized what the scraping sound was and screamed. The dragon skeleton was slipping off the mountainside- She lunged forward unbidden after the body toward the edge of the mountain-

  
Irowe wrapped her arms around a nearby pillar and clung to it as the dragon screeched in horror, vying for control of her feet and fingers. The skeleton’s legs slid over the edge and its ribcage soon followed, the skull disappeared from view taking several feet of snow with it.

  
Inside Qonahmir was screaming, hurling curses at the stars and Nirn and Irowe most of all. They both watched in horror and fascination as the dragon skeleton tumbled down the slope, breaking rock outcroppings and snapping bones on its descent. Finally the carcass was too far away to see, still rolling down the mountainside.

  
The dragon was inconsolable, but at last it retracted its grip on her body. Irowe scrambled to her knees and crawled away from the edge, only standing up once she was on the other side of the steps. She stood there a moment, staring over the cliff and realizing how close Qonahmir had come to killing her, even if the giant lizard moaned that it was an instinctive reflex and nothing more.

  
A shiver ran up her spine; the dragon now shared its soul with her, and could command _her_ body if it reacted quickly enough. She turned once again towards the Nord fort. She prayed the Greybeards could help her with that.

  
Irowe walked back up the steps towards the landing where the four monks stood. The one who had shared his knowledge with her, Borri, was smiling. The master monk was not.

  
“So... a dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

  
He almost sounded _upset_. Qonahmir hissed angrily into her mind that the aged Nord had every right to be upset: killing dragons was anathema to these mystics. It refused to say anything else on the matter, mourning the loss of its broken body.

  
The master monk bowed his head forward. “Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir, I speak for the Greybeards.” He beckoned and walked back into the monastery. “Come. Your training will begin at once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Dovahkiin! Nikriin! Krif zu'u!: Coward! Fight me!
>   * Koraav wen Thu'um los mul nu: See whose Voice is stronger now
>   * Pruzah krif Dovahkiin: Well fought Dragonborn
> 



	6. Down to Earth

 

> _No, you don't get it. The Bosmer they take to be their 'servants' never come home again. They've taken thousands of us and not one of them's ever returned. Being picked up by the Thalmor? It's a death sentence._
> 
> _\-- On the Thalmor and Valenwood  
>  _

* * *

 

WHITEWATER roared along one of the pools of the White River’s falls into the tundra valley below. The water was unusually high for this time of year, even with Falkreath’s warmer weather. A few salmon wandered around the last pool, intrigued by the strange white rocks, before continuing their run to Lake Ilinalta.

  
Fallon edged into the water far enough to grab a bony object as large as his head and bring it back to shore: a dragonscale. He brought it back to Amuril and held it out for him to look at. Amuril didn’t notice; he was too busy staring dumbly at the dragon skeleton damming the river. He’d done nothing _but_ stare for the past five minutes.

  
Fallon sighed and threw the giant scale back into the water. He wiped his hands on his legs and cleared his throat.

  
“It’s uh... It’s _dead_. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  
“Yes and no.” Amuril answered weakly.

  
Fallon smothered a groan and stared at the bones in the river. He didn't understand Altmer. Irowe had the ability to kill fire-breathing monsters that could demolish an Imperial fort in minutes... and Amuril was _upset_?

  
His ears flicked as the gravel grated underneath the wizard's turning boots. Fallon looked over his shoulder and saw Amuril heading back up the road. The old mage was teetering and every now and then stuck his left hand out to stop from falling into the rocks. He did that when he was thinking too hard. Fallon gave the white bones one last look before running after him.

  
“Hey-” He slowed to a skip next to the Altmer. “Where are we going?”

  
“Up there.” Amuril pointed to the fort barely visible among the snow. “I said she could go talk to these Greybeards, I didn’t expect her to make such a dramatic entrance.”

  
“You kinda knew that when you married her.” Fallon muttered in Bosmeris. One word he _wouldn't_ use to describe Irowe was subtle. Fallon wondered again how it was the two Altmer had stuck together for so long; they should have driven each other insane after six months.

  
The road curved east and he looked over the mountainside, or what was left of it after the dragon scraped down the slope. He could make out a leg bone, maybe a piece of wing stuck between boulders here and there, where the force had broken it off the body.

  
A shiver ran down his back as Fallon realized it had been a miracle no one had been on the road at the time. The avalanche of bones could have killed somebody, even if it did end up in the river.

  
_Irowe_ could have killed somebody.

  
Upriver before the falls was a lumber town; they stopped briefly at the inn to grab breakfast and some directions. The cook/innkeeper muttered something about his partner abandoning him at the worst of times, but told them the 7000 Steps started in Ivarstead. He pushed a map across the counter before retreating to the kitchen away from three growingly irate locals.

  
Fallon pointed at the small house symbol nestled between the cliffs, lake and mountains. “Hey, that’s where the-”

  
Fallon stopped and peered around, not sure if anyone was listening in. It wasn’t unusual for Altmer and Bosmer to travel together, and they were wearing mages robes and leather armor, but even a Nord might suspect ‘Thalmor’ with enough hints. “That’s about where we lost the horse.”

  
“Yes, I remember.” Amuril muttered before rerolling the map. Fallon watched him place it behind four bottles of Colovian wine; the young mer stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.

  
“Well... the armor might be around there.”

  
Amuril turned and looked at him. Fallon bit his lip. The elven armor he’d been wearing that day wasn’t his, or the Malciors’, but from the Embassy’s armory. The First Emissary wanted to make a show of force with as many people on horseback as possible, but he’d still felt ridiculous and completely out of place wearing it.

  
And then the dragon had eaten the horse it was on, and the cost of losing the horse and the armor came directly out of Amuril’s pay. Fallon was only thankful he’d had the sense that morning to leave his kit at the Embassy. Replacing the dozens of things he’d picked up over the years to serve the Malciors would have been costly if not impossible, with the recent slowing of imports due to the rebellion.

  
There wasn’t much any of them could do - or wanted to - about the horse, but Fallon still felt responsible for losing the armor. If he could find anything of it and try to make some money back for Amuril, he wanted to.

  
“Fallon, I _told_ you not to worry about it.” Amuril stated, peering back into the kitchen for the cook.

  
Fallon shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I mean- we have to wait for her anyway, might as well wait at the inn.”

  
Amuril turned and knelt down so they weren’t overheard. “We are not _waiting_ at the inn, we are going _straight there_ -”

  
“Fish and cheese.” The cook dropped a sack and a thick package of twine-bound paper on the counter. “You want bread, it’s by the fire.”

  
A blonde Nord pressed against the counter before any of them had moved. “Orgnar, where’s Delphine? This ale’s gone bad and she’s half a centim short on my pay-”

  
“Sven, it’s not my problem.”

  
Orgnar pushed away and ducked back into the kitchen. Sven huffed and leaned on the counter, glancing around the inn before looking back to Orgnar.

  
“The ale’s bad-”

  
“Not my problem.” The door shut behind him.

  
Amuril reached around the minstrel and handed the sack of cheese to Fallon. Fallon snuck his hand inside and broke off a crumb of the cheese, squirreling it away in his mouth. It tasted like a local variation of snow cheese with... Fallon swallowed. Mushrooms? That could be interesting. It was nutty and sweet, but he wasn’t sure how well that would pair with the fish-

  
Fallon turned into Sven’s shoulder and yelped, rubbing his nose.

  
Sven scowled down at him. “Watch where you’re going, Elf.”

  
Fallon swallowed and stepped back to give him space, trying to breathe deeper so his heart would stop racing. Usually when he bumped Nords in inns they started swinging or yelling slurred slurs at him. He had next to no good experiences with them, given the Malciors’ work, and there was always the story Atheas had told him, about how Ata hurt his leg.

  
He’d found Nords were a lot like Altmer, but he’d never say that out loud.

  
Amuril laid a hand on Fallon’s shoulder and guided him to the door when he wouldn’t move. “Come on. We have a long journey ahead.” His hand stayed on Fallon’s shoulder until they left the front porch of the inn and got on the main road to head south.

  
The Rift road was sparsely populated; between the rebellion, bandits and dragons, most roads were empty these days. There wasn't even game on the road, and the birds only made their presence known when they startled and flew away. The stillness grew, radiating from the Imperial fort guarding the Pale Pass to Cyrodiil. They crested the hill and Helgen loomed out of the mountains.

  
They tread carefully under the unhinged western gate, ash and gravel gritting loudly into the paving stones. The ghost town was the only southern pass to eastern Skyrim, and the fastest path to Ivarstead and the Throat of the World. No amount of wishing would change that.

  
Fallon kept his eyes on the broken timbers and stones, wary of anything that could be hiding behind them. A few houses were still standing, if three walls and a collapsed roof was considered ‘standing’. Ideal for staging an ambush. He swallowed, silently cursing the Empire and Jarls for abandoning the ruin to nature, bandits, or worse.

  
It was hard to explain why this place unnerved him. Everything around them and every shred of common sense inside him screamed at him to run, that this place was bad. Cursed, almost. Being inside the town wasn’t helping him think either.

  
Fallon turned and walked backwards as they reached the northern gate, half-expecting to see bandits or Stormcloaks creep out from the rubble to attack them. He and Amuril were the only living things inside the fort. Somehow, that was worse.

  
The northern gate opened with a loud creak and seeing the mountain road helped him remember how to breathe. The young mer gave one last look to the ruin, his gaze lingering on the watchtower, before hurrying past the snowline. He skidded to a stop when a lone figure moved among the drifts and trees; a figure in blue and mail.

  
“Keep walking.” Amuril murmured. Fallon swallowed and kept his gaze on the sentry. “We're just traveling, we haven't done anything wrong.”

  
Fallon nodded and pulled his hood down further, tucking loose red hair back behind his shoulder. They hadn't done anything wrong, but simply being here could be wrong, to the right Nord. Amuril set the pace: an agonizing, leisurely walk that implied they had all the time in the world. Fallon wanted to run - he _needed_ to run - Stormcloaks never traveled alone. Amuril hooked their arms together and nodded to the Stormcloak sentry. What the sentry was thinking under the faceless helmet they couldn't tell, but the Nord's head tracked them as they passed.

  
They passed behind an outcrop and Fallon sighed, shaking his arms out. They still had to climb the tallest mountain in the world - they had to _reach it_ first - and he was already exhausted.

  
Thankfully, the winding trail up and down the mountains' crevice was otherwise uneventful, and the warm-colored woods of the Rift welcomed them in from the cold. The Rift and Falkreath were the only heavily forested hold, and it was comforting to be among trees again. It wasn't like home - here the sunlight still found the ground through the leaves - but it was as close as Skyrim could get.

  
The two mer continued on the road past an upturned cart and finally the bridge to Ivarstead appeared on their left. Fallon's ears perked up as he remembered this was where the dragon blocked them before. This was where he'd lost the horse, and his armor.

  
There was a deep furrow in the ground, dried mud from a late summer rain, leading down a sunken clearing. A furrow that looked suspiciously like a dragged horse.

  
“Fallon-”

  
“I- Just a moment!”

  
He walked off the road down to the cluster of white and gold trees. He could smell the horse, or what was left of it. There was another scent, a carnivore; a hollow under the hill was probably its den. Bear or troll maybe; he hoped it wasn't a troll. A lazy hum from the nearby trees convinced him it was bears, and hopefully it wasn't hungry.

  
“We really don't have time for this-” Amuril stopped and hurried back to the road as a stuttering growl echoed from the cave. A black bear ambled out of the cave and stretched, its brown eyes trying to sense if the two mer were a threat or food. Behind it against the cave wall was what was left of a horse.

  
Fallon held up his hand to the bear, raising the other slowly. He wasn’t here to take its kill, just the parts it couldn’t eat. It blinked at him and yawned, its throat grumbling into a whine. Fallon walked to the carcass, grinning when he saw the Aldmeri eagle on a saddlebag. The bear chuffed at him, shambling over to see if the Bosmer was trying to steal its kill.

  
“Fallon...” Amuril cautioned from behind a tree.

  
Fallon ignored him, hair prickling as he heard the faint crackle of shock magic. He knelt down and tugged the pack free from the bones; he dug inside it, patting the armor pieces and muttering a count under his breath. Gauntlets, helmet, sabatons- everything was still there, just covered in decayed horse, blood and slobber. It would smell terribly but maybe he could convince a smith to buy it for parts, smelt it down to make a sword or arrows or something. He could try talking one of the eastern smiths into making it into a warhammer or something, to use on the Thalmor. Nords liked that sort of irony.

  
Fallon tucked the pieces back into the cuirass and the pack; the bear sniffed at the bag and he held it out for the animal. The pack reeked of dead horse but they could both smell that the bag itself wasn't food. The bear growled something and sauntered back into the shade, laying its head on its paws and watching him walk back to the road.

  
Amuril hurried to his side but kept his distance from the stinking pack. “Don’t _ever_ do that again. It’s dangerous. It could have eaten you.”

  
“It wasn't hungry...” Fallon muttered in Bosmeris, tucking the pack's top into the bag so the eagle couldn't be seen.

  
Atheas had taught him that, in the small woods outside Skywatch, how to tell what animals were thinking. How to read animals - even convince them to do things - by noticing the small things: how long they blinked, the flick of their ears, the way they moved their tail. It wasn't 'Wood Elf magic' as much as 'paying attention', though the other races - Altmer specifically - felt better about their shortcomings if it was the former.

  
Fallon’s mouth curled sadly as they walked through the small also mainly lumber town of Ivarstead. The older, also red-headed Bosmer had lived in deep Valenwood with Fallon’s father, before they both moved to Kvatch during the war. But while Fallon’s family made it to safety when the Altmer took everyone to the Dominion, Atheas didn’t, and paid the price for fighting back.

  
Really, most of what he knew about Valenwood - even his own family - came from Atheas. He had left Valenwood too young and had few memories of his own, and he didn’t want to remember how he’d left.

  
Fallon looked up as they passed into the shadow of the mountain; beyond the bridge crossing the Darkwater River were the first of the 7000 steps. It wasn't even midday yet. He sighed, adjusted his packs, and followed Amuril.

  
When they finally reached the mountain fort the sun crested the distant peaks of the Druadachs and a light snow began to fall. The last hundred steps before the fort were covered in piles of upturned snow and broken rocks. Here and there a stone step upturned and flung several yards away. The largest disturbance was near the edge, where the thin layer of fresh powder had soaked up black blood.

  
The two mer hurried up the flight of stairs to the fort’s doors, entering through the left door once they saw the right was crumpled beyond repair, as well as wedged shut. Inside a few braziers were lit although it was no warmer than it had been outside, only out of the wind.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ” The hallway on the right echoed as a grey blur raced down the corridor. “ _Fus Ro!_ ” The figure leapt and kicked off a pillar, launching itself into the air and landing several yards away. The Greybeard did not, however, have enough strength to stop himself from slamming into the far wall with a high-pitched yelp. Fallon frowned; the cry was too high to be a man’s.

  
“Irowe?”

  
She turned and stared at her two visitors, then up at the light streaming through the skylight. “It’s only been a few days, I swear. I’ve just been training so I don’t have to come back-”

  
“Are you alright?” Irowe nodded and shrugged but Amuril hurried over to personally verify that.

  
“We saw the dragon in the river, Amuril was worried.”

  
Irowe’s face twitched and she raised a hand halfway to her head before pulling it down again. “Qonahmir. After I absorbed its soul the first time it was able to track me easier. It heard me trying to shout and wanted a rematch. I won.” She stated with a flip of her hair.

  
Fallon raised his eyebrows. The dragon in the river was the same one that tried to eat him at the lake? Well, served it right.

  
“So... you absorbed his soul again?” Amuril inquired. Irowe scoffed.

  
“Damn lizard won’t shut up. When it isn’t whining about being trapped inside a mortal it’s offering _unhelpful_ advice on Shouting.”

  
“What is this shouting thing anyway? Nord magic?” Fallon asked.

  
“Dragon magic, actually. It’s how dragons ‘argue’ with each other. Some Shouts are useful, most of them aren’t. Qonahmir wants me to do fire breath but Master Arngeir says I should wait a bit longer.”

  
Amuril coughed. Fallon’s eyes lit up at the words ‘fire breath’. “You can breathe fire?”

  
“I could if I knew the words. I can do anything a dragon can.” Irowe glanced down at her arms and waved them around weakly before bringing them back to her side. “Well, except fly.”

  
Fallon shrugged. “I don’t know, you were getting pretty far off the ground earlier when-”

  
“Drem, wunduniik.” A voice rumbled throughout the fortress.

  
Fallon reached for his knife and Amuril called a flame spell, though they both relaxed once they saw the speaker. He was an old Nord clad in a grey robe much the same as Irowe’s, but more ornate with patterns that resembled a dragon’s head and scales.

  
“It is not our custom to welcome guests into our halls.”

  
Irowe walked over to him. Fallon noticed warily that she stepped _between_ the aged Nord and her colleagues. Never a good sign.

  
“Master Arngeir, they’re friends of mine. They came to get me.”

  
The elderly Nord sucked in already sunken cheeks; maybe that was why he looked like a bearded skeleton. He folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robes and walked away. Irowe raised a hand but said nothing, letting her hand fall back to her side.

  
“You know only two Shouts, Dragonborn, and only a few words of each.”

  
“I can’t stay up here and meditate on words, Master Arngeir, I have a life.” Irowe stuttered. “-Down -down there, I have a life besides being the Dragonborn.”

  
A gruff grunt echoed across the ancient stones. “You are dragonborn, it will be permitted. However, before you return to us, perhaps you can find time to recover a relic of our order. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. If you can retrieve it, you are ready to be called Dragonborn.”

  
Irowe turned to her husband. Amuril exhaled and nodded half-heartedly. Fallon peered up at him; his lips were pursed together and he was frowning. He might have to go 'explore' the rest of this fort later so the two of them could uh... ‘talk’. Loudly.

  
“Very well, where is this horn?” Irowe asked, looking again to the Nord.

  
“It is located in his tomb of Ustengrav, north and east of the marshes of Hjaalmarch. Remain true to the Way of the Voice as we have taught you, and you will return.”

  
The monk and Irowe bowed to each other. “Thank you.”

  
He nodded once more, subtly shaking his head as he left the great room for the depths of the fort. Irowe turned back to her unit and flashed a grin.

  
“Shall we go?”

  
The two mer returned the stare she’d given them earlier.

  
“This late? You’re joking right?” Fallon asked.

  
Irowe frowned and walked outside, her shoulders slumping when she saw the sun setting behind the Druadachs. “I guess we can... stay here then. Follow me.” Irowe muttered, walking off to the right passageway.

  
“There’s four Greybeards. Arngeir-” She lowered her voice. “The ornery one. Then there’s Einarth and Wulfgar. I’m still not sure how to tell them apart, but they were meditating in the courtyard after lunch.”

  
“You said there were four?”

  
“Oh! And Borri. He’s the youngest, not as prim as the others and actually helpful. They have a sort of- a vow of silence, because they’ve spent so long training in the Voice. If they spoke they could injure you. Except Arngeir, of course, he’s adept enough to control how he speaks.”

  
The mer stepped into a long room lined with eight stone beds, a few chairs, some bookshelves with token tomes on their shelves, and braziers. That was all that was in the room. Fallon sighed; the inn in town had more amenities in its privy room.

  
“I take it they’re not that interested in _comfort_ either.”

  
“It distracts from their meditation.” Irowe shrugged, though it devolved to a shiver and she rubbed her shoulders. “They’re Nords; I don’t think they realize how cold it is in here.”

  
Amuril set his pack next to one of the beds and lay down. The beds were all made of single slabs of stone, with enough space for a ‘mattress’ - a collection of furs, straw and blankets - carved into it. Amuril was short for an Altmer, and often threatened to hit Irowe for flaunting that she was one inch taller. He was however taller than most Nords; long enough that his ankles hung off the bed.

  
“I’ve been sleeping on the floor, thanks to that.” Irowe scowled and pointed at the stone carving of a dragon’s head in the middle of the footboard. Amuril sighed and pulled his feet up, looking over at Irowe's cluster of bedding and glaring back at the footboard.

  
Fallon didn’t bother checking the beds; he was a foot shorter than the Malciors so he knew he'd fit. He could scrounge additional furs and blankets off the other beds since he doubted the lone fleece blanket would keep him warm. He did still feel very... uncomfortable, sleeping in a bed when the Malciors slept of the floor, but if they felt the same they didn’t say so.

  
While Amuril debated where he was going to sleep, Fallon dug out the grill and what was left of the food they'd bought in Riverwood. The pack's stench staved off hunger but he hadn't eaten since Riverwood and his stomach hated him for it.

  
Fallon set the grill among the coals, poking them with his knife before digging around for the bread and cheese. Altmer were practically vegetarians, or at least weren't bound to the 'only what you can make from animals' rule of the Meat Mandate. The two Altmer could have the bread and some cheese, but the rest of it was his.

  
Suddenly a blur of white shot across the room; the pillow landed in Irowe's bedding. Amuril grumbled something and gathered up the bed's blankets, depositing them in the same heap. Fallon reluctantly set another salmon on the grill; fish was one of the few meats Altmer _would_ eat, and it was better to have everyone calm than to have a full stomach.

  
“So... a dead Nord’s tomb.” Fallon commented, peeking at the bread to make sure it wasn't burning. “That’ll only take us what, a week to get there and back to Falkreath?”

  
“No, we’re going back to Falkreath.” Amuril stated. Irowe glanced over at her husband but continued straightening a troll hide.

  
Fallon frowned. “But you said-”

  
“I just have to get the horn before I come back here, whenever that is. All that’s left is a ceremony where they Shout at me and make me ‘officially’ the Dragonborn.”

  
“That sounds painful.” Fallon winced.

  
“I’m sure it isn’t.” She sighed and sat down on the covers next to Amuril. “It can wait.”

  
Fallon raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. The two Altmer started talking, their voices quiet but echoing in the dead air of the monastery. Fallon focused on the food, reminding himself that their domestic squabbles were none of his business. He didn't bother them about his life unless they asked, and then only the parts he needed to say to satisfy their curiosity. Besides, Irowe was twice his age and Amuril was _ancient_ ; even if he had relationship advice it wouldn’t be any use to them.

  
When the fish was cooked Fallon plated the two salmon filets, the bread slices, and some cheese. The two Altmer were too wrapped up in their discussion to realize their food was done until he handed it to them. Amuril thanked him quietly, glancing at the two cheese wedges on the grill and guiltily down at his own plate. Irowe set her plate down and took Amuril's hand to bless their meal.

  
Fallon stole back to the brazier and laid the other two salmon steaks on the grill, chewing slowly on his cheese to make it last longer. Hopefully they'd be less irritable with food in their stomachs. Fallon sighed and rubbed his calves; he wasn't looking forward to the climb down tomorrow.


	7. For Want of a Horn

> _Only the foolish, foolhardy or desperate delve into Skyrim's abandoned crypts._

* * *

  
JURGEN Windcaller's horn had been on Irowe's mind the past two months. Amuril at first said that they had to finish their assignment in Falkreath and the marshes were too far away. Even when they brought a prisoner to the embassy and were a few hours walk away he reminded her that they couldn’t spare the time. The first week they were stationed in the Pale - a mere morning’s walk away from Hjaalmarch - he refused on the grounds that the other units would notice them missing.

  
Then Karadon’s unit left to report to the emissaries on Fredas. Morndas, Thaewen talked Pelengrim into investigating a rumor of Talos worshippers meeting in a moonstone mine and the other two units left the small camp on the arctic shores. Middas morning, it was only the Malciors and Fallon among the iced black rocks. Still, Amuril refused to set foot in Hjaalmarch.

  
“Amuril, it's not even two hours walk away. We can go there, find the horn, and be back before lunch.” Irowe scoffed. Fallon was outside cooking breakfast while they discussed the horn. Amuril knelt back on his bedroll, watching it unravel slowly and lie flat again. With the other units gone and themselves in Stormcloak territory it wasn’t wise to stay in one place for long.

  
He exhaled just loudly enough to state his mood. “Irowe, we have work to do-”

  
“Work you _hate_. And when have we ever caught Talos worshippers in the Pale? There’s no one _here_.”

  
Amuril frowned at her; she folded her arms across her chest.

  
“It won’t take long, I promise.” She pleaded. Amuril sighed and rubbed his face, pinching rheum from his eyes.

  
A tap on the door of their tent cut off the brewing argument. Fallon cleared his throat and poked his head in their tent cautiously. In his hands a peace offering: poached gull eggs on rolls and a small pot of snowberry tea. Irowe took the wooden plate and thanked him, handing it to Amuril before digging under her bedding for her canteen. Fallon reached into his pockets and pulled out two apples, setting them down next to the pot before ducking back out to cook his own food.

  
The couple ate in silence, with Irowe stealing glances at her husband. He was usually in a better mood after he ate.

  
“Amuril-” Irowe began before a sharp rap on the tent wall drew their attention to the door. Fallon pulled the tent flap away and it fluttered in the wind.

  
“There’s a storm coming in.” He nodded to the northern coast where a wall of black clouds was massing offshore. Irowe’s eyes lit up.

  
“It will be dry inside the tomb-”

  
“ _Enough._ ” Amuril shook his head and jerked the ties taunt around his bedroll. “Pack your things. We’re going to Hjaalmarch...”

  
Irowe beamed and pecked him on the cheek; Fallon blinked but said nothing, pausing to study the storm before breaking down his tent. Irowe wiped crumbs off her clothes and shoved her nightclothes and bedding into their bag. She grabbed her and Amuril’s bags and threw them outside; Amuril was already pulling the leather off the poles.

  
The wind picked up and she had to tuck her hair back under her scarf and hood so she could see. Fallon had already finished and was scattering the stones from the fire ring; he chucked the last one into the rocks south of them as Irowe adjusted her pack on her shoulders. It started raining.

  
“Let’s move.” Amuril called out and they hurried east as the waves pounded the northern coast.

  
The beaches along the Sea of Ghosts were deserted save for a few horker colonies that ambled further inland; the land had been scoured of any natural sanctuary after centuries of winds and rain. Irowe tried to work feeling back into her frozen fingers. They were all soaked and shivering, and the wind and water wicked away their energy but there was no relief from the storm. It felt like they’d been walking for hours, though there was no way to tell with Magnus hidden behind the clouds. She couldn’t even see the distant outcrop of Solitude over the Karth Bay.

  
Finally the snow and ice on their left gave way to ice and peat brush. The jagged hills and mount to the south sloped down into the marshes of Hjaalmarch, and jutting out of the easternmost mountain were dark stone pillars and arches of Nordic masonry.

  
“Is that it?” Fallon yelled over the wind and surf, pointing to a pillar with a hawk’s head atop it. It looked like there was an entrance carved into the mountain underneath it.

  
“It’s out of the wind, isn’t it?” Irowe yelled back.

  
The three hurried through the broken rockface to what was once an extravagant crypt entrance. Unlike most Nord tombs there was no antechamber or smaller buildings, though there could have been some long ago before the sea encroached on the mount. Amuril turned to the nearest outcrop and poured flames at it until the surface glowed. They huddled around the heated rocks and dusted sleet off their robes or armor, doing their best to keep out of the wind as the rain couldn’t be helped.

  
Irowe walked to the crypt’s door. Once the others were warm enough they would enter together, but the doors needed to be open first. Irowe placed her hands on the door-

 _This is the wrong tomb_ , Qonahmir whispered in the back of her mind. Irowe pulled her hand back and rubbed her palm, glancing up at the arches. The dragon seemed sure of itself, and it was certainly possible there was more than one tomb out here. Yet there was something else in the dragon’s words, an undertone of... danger.

  
She reached out with her senses and magic. There _was_ something stirring in the depths of the mountain, but it was very faint: distant even. _It will not stay that way long with you outside_ , Qonahmir hissed. It was something ancient, something familiar to the dragon inside her; something Qonahmir wasn’t keen on facing in her body.

  
Irowe turned south and started walking briskly. Amuril called after her. “Irowe, what are you-”

  
“We can’t stay here. Keep moving.” She hollered back, crouching down before sliding the rest of the way down a boulder.

  
She didn’t trust the dragon whose soul she carried, but she did know it accepted that they were stuck with each other until she died. If Qonahmir was wary of this tomb, she wasn’t staying anywhere near it. The two mer gave up and rushed to catch up with her, climbing down the south face and back into the chill winds.

  
Irowe kept walking as the beach turned to saltmarsh and haggard shrubs began to dot the landscape. There were trees further south, and her intuition and dragon companion both agreed to look there. Even Nords weren’t stupid enough to build a crypt in a marsh; it would flood before they could entomb its occupants. The ground was a carpet of squishy grass with pockets of mud here and there, but the mountain shielded them from some of the wind.

  
Finally they made it to the tree line, if a slightly thicker population of overgrown bushes could be called a tree line. Irowe did hope this Ustengrav would be visible from the surface. If it was one of those half-buried domes she was going to-

  
She slipped in a puddle that was far deeper than she expected. An arrow whizzed past her face and splashed into the mud twenty paces behind.

  
“Take cover!” Amuril yelled.

  
Irowe dropped her pack and ran off to the left towards the rocks; Amuril conjured a storm atronach and let it lumber ahead of him. A second arrow deflected off the rotating rocks as the swirling sparks grew louder and brighter. Fallon sprinted to a fallen tree and knelt down, slaking off his gear before prying at his bow case with frozen fingers. Another arrow buried itself in the dead wood by his knee as he started stringing his bow.

  
A battle cry drew Irowe’s attention - a towering Orc was charging toward her. She barely had time to conjure an axe and raise it above her head before he brought a mace down. Irowe twisted and let him continue to lumber forward, slashing his bare back open and cleaving through his neck once he fell to the ground. To her right Fallon was trying to hit a nimble Nord woman who kept ducking between the trees and rocks, firing her own crude arrows at the Bosmer archer. Irowe hurled two firebolts in the Nord’s direction, giving Fallon enough time to pierce her leather cuirass. Another shot to her face finished her.

  
Something deeper in the forest exploded. Stones shot out from where Amuril’s atronach had been and the Amuril was knocked to the ground. A figure in black stalked towards him gripping a crackling staff. Amuril threw up a ward as a lightning bolt shot out and zapped it out of existence. Two ashen bloodied Nords climbed out of the ground at the rogue wizard’s command and stumbled towards their adversaries. The rogue wizard shouted something and raised the staff over his head-

  
The black mage stumbled backwards and fell to the ground with a splash, two elven arrows in his side and another in his neck. The two Nords he’d raised shuddered and fell to the ground as ashes.

  
Amuril sat up and winced, blinking blood out of his eyes. Irowe dropped down beside him and wiped the blood away, grimacing at a long muddy gash on his forehead. Fallon walked around checking the dead as he found them and looking out for more, but the swamp was quiet.

  
Irowe untangled her waterskin from her pack and tilted Amuril’s head back, washing the dirt and mud away before running a hand over the wound. Her palm glowed golden and blood gushed out of the cut as it healed from the inside out.

  
“Is everyone alright?” Amuril asked.

  
Fallon called out that he was uninjured and walked back towards the camp; Irowe glared at her husband before dousing him with water again. She rubbed the back of her hand against his forehead, searching for a part of her skin that could still feel to see that the wound was healed properly. Satisfied, she pecked him on the lips before helping him stand up.

  
They were standing in the middle of a camp, supposing a lean-to, collection of barrels and a dead fire pit could be called a camp. The barrels were clustered around a subterranean stone structure, with more containers and a dead Nord lying at the bottom of it. There was a black metal door underneath a stairwell ringing the edge of the circular structure; a Nord crypt was no doubt inside.

  
“Is this it?”

  
Qonahmir seemed to think it was, that was good enough for her. Irowe glanced around and nodded. A few torchbugs hung lazily in the air, but the only other movement in sight was from the storm. It was an eerie desolate landscape to bury the founder of the Greybeards, with no sign anyone living remembered the barrow was even here.

  
“Let’s get out of this damned rain.” Amuril muttered, straining drops of water from his hair.

  
They walked down the stone steps and inspected the storage containers, half to see if there was anything useful and half to see what the dead ruffians and necromancer were _doing_ in this forsaken place. Fallon knelt down and opened the chest to discover it was half full of skooma bottles. Traffickers no doubt; operating just out of reach of the Solitude Guard but within walking distance of the sea for transport. Fallon closed the lid with disgust.

  
“Well that explains this bunch.” He kicked the dead Nord’s boot.

  
“Yes, but not the necromancer.” Amuril murmured.

  
A bird screeched across the marsh, flying off towards Solitude with its call of warning. Irowe exhaled and opened the door to the barrow. Hopefully the welcome party they’d encountered would be the only one for the day, although something in her stomach told her it wouldn’t be.

  
Inside the antechamber the stones were moist and the air was musty. The trio stowed their packs in an alcove out of sight of the door and carried inward. A few lit torches showed the path to a large cavern lined with pillars and alcoves.

  
A woman’s scream rent the air.

  
The three mer readied their weapons and crept into the room. By the far wall a handful of mages urged four brigands into combat with their former compatriots.

  
One of the dealers was shrieking incoherently. It sounded like names of their raised comrades, and pleas to fight the dark magic. A necromancer cackled, sparks crackling on his fingertips-

  
He choked and dropped to the ground, an elven arrow in his throat. The brigands whirled around at the sudden appearance of two mages and an archer; some of them turned to fight the newcomers and some took the opportunity to attack the necromancers. The necromancers simply attacked everyone.

  
The hall devolved into a flurry of fireballs, lightning bolts, arrows, and the clashing of steel. A few of the skooma dealers fled down a passage during the battle after a conjurer, the sound of ice spikes and panicked yelling echoed up to the main chamber. All was quiet however once the last necromancer was silenced. The three mer looked around to see if anyone else had survived and found no one. Fallon scavenged the arrows that weren’t broken and returned them to his quiver before following the Malciors down the side passage.

  
The cavern walls shook as a ghostly scream echoed up from the depths. Irowe stared at the end of the passage before racing towards it.

  
“Irowe!” Amuril ran after her. At the end of the passage it opened up into a dimly lit catacomb. A black-robed Dunmer had been hacked to pieces just before the door, two undead bodies beside him. Further on steel rang against stone and she could hear someone shouting frantically in a Sunhold accent.

  
“You won’t get the best of me-!” Irowe turned the corner to see four hulking figures standing over the falling body of an Altmer mage.

  
All four of the undead were wearing horned helmets: three pointed up like some daedric bull, the last resembled a ram’s horn. One of the three spotted her, bright blue eyes glowing in the faint light. The others took notice as the first hunched its shoulders back and its mouth hung slack.

  
“ _Fus Ro-_ ”

  
“ _Fus!_ ” Irowe shouted before the undead could finish. The others were jerked backwards off their feet down the corridor. Amuril and Fallon came to a stop behind her, the undead snarled at all of them as they climbed back to their feet. The closest ones were only standing a second before a fire blast knocked them back down. Irowe lunged forward and dealt with the two on the right while Amuril and Fallon kept the remaining undead on the ground and pelted with arrows. The mer only stopped to breathe once their enemies had stopped moving.

  
Irowe knelt panting over the last one, its blue eyes dimming and finally extinguished. Fallon crept to the nearest undead and began pulling arrows out of its revolting body, scowling as most of them came up broken or bent by the armor.

  
“What are these?” Amuril asked in his most displeased tone.

  
“It’s a dead Nord, a um...” Irowe waved her hand around hoping to conjure the word to her mind.

  
“Draugr.” Amuril finished.

  
“It did that shouting thing. I thought you were the only one that could do that.” Fallon said, gauging the damage of the arrows he’d spent in this room. Irowe shrugged her shoulders uneasily.

  
A few minutes ago she would have agreed with the Bosmer; she thought she was the only one outside of the Greybeards or the dragons that could Shout. Apparently the talent was much more prevalent in eras past. It did fit with the lore Arngeir had shared about the Greybeards: the Thu’um used to be used in combat until Jurgen defeated the Tongues and enforced strict rules on its usage. She would have thought that those rules would extend to his tomb but perhaps not.

  
“Other people can learn to use the Thu’um, it just takes them years to learn a single Word, much less a whole Shout.”

  
“How many more of these things are there?” Irowe cast a magical light and looked down the corridor. Nords not only bred like rabbits, their barrows mimicked burrows and warrens as well. How large the tomb was, or how many dead Nords were entombed here...

  
“I don’t know.”

  
Amuril exhaled and scanned the chamber. “Fallon, stay here and guard the entrance. We’ll retrieve the horn.”

  
The Bosmer immediately balked at the idea. “What if those skooma dealers have friends? Or the necromancers? Or there’s more of _those_ things?” He pointed an arrow at the ebony armored draugr at their feet.

  
Irowe laid a hand on her husband’s forearm. “Amuril, we should stick together.”

  
Splitting up was ludicrous. From this fight alone they knew that Fallon’s elven arrows had little stopping power against the lurking beasts. The two mages couldn’t very well ‘kill’ every carcass in the crypt, and if they missed enough of the draugr, and the draugr realized the Bosmer was there...

  
“Very well.” Amuril relented. “Do we know where the horn is?”

  
“Well if this Nord was the founder of the Greybeards, I can’t imagine they’d just stick him in an alcove. He must have an elaborate grave somewhere...” Her voice trailed off as she realized they wouldn’t have placed the main occupant anywhere near the entrance. “Probably deep inside the barrow.”

  
“Of _course._ ” Amuril stated sarcastically.

  
They all froze as something in the depths muttered words only Irowe understood. Wordlessly they prepared for another fight.

  
“Irowe you’re in front, I’ll guard the rear.” Amuril said.

  
The two mages recast their respective bound armor spells and Fallon nocked an arrow. They began the long trek into the darkness, only Irowe’s Candlelight sphere illuminating the alcoves filled with dead.


	8. Ustengrav Depths

> _"I now believe that the grotesque forms that we see in the barrows were, in fact, buried fully as men and women, and only over the thousands of years that have passed withered into the wretched things we know."_
> 
> _\-- Bernadette Bantien_

* * *

  
USTENGRAV was a womb of nightmares. More than once the three elves would walk past a niche, only to have its occupant try to strangle them from behind. Irowe swore if she slept sometime in the next week it would be too soon, she was sure to have dreams of pale fingers reaching for her neck.

  
A firebolt into each suspicious room was their only assurance against a rear ambush. Now and then the claustrophobic catacombs would give way to larger chambers: a library filled with ruined books; a tiny alcove with mortars, calcinators and pestles, complete with worryingly fresh ingredients from the surface; a dining hall ringed with sarcophagi. After clearing one such room they came to another black metal door, and did everything they could to bar anything from following them through it.

  
Fallon shot a draugr guard from a distance only to watch in resigned frustration as it stumbled towards a ledge and over, tumbling down to the rocks below. He frowned and looked down at his quiver, counting the elven arrows he had left on one hand. Irowe walked to the edge and gazed at the bizarre beauty of the cavern they were now in.

  
The floor was several hundred yards below them, and there were trees - pine trees, not the shrubs on the surface - clustered around a large waterfall and pool. A large natural bridge crossed the chasm from a ledge beneath them to a large area with buildings and what looked like a court. A few birds flew down to their nests in the branches from a hollow in the ceiling. Looking up through the crevice she could see it was still cloudy, but the sun was shining. Irowe smiled. She hadn’t thought she’d be so happy to see daylight again.

  
Howls reverberated up the corridor and the mer grit their teeth before continuing on. The path to the buildings Irowe had seen led - of course - through another string of draugr infested chambers before a collapsed walkway deposited them at a base of stairs. Stairs filled with skeletons.

  
“Oblivion with this-” Fallon grabbed a rusted sword and shattered the lead skeleton’s ribcage. The two mages battered a handful of the undead back onto fire traps with magicka attacks, while Fallon vented his frustration for all the arrows he’d have to purchase in Solitude.

  
With all the undead dealt with once again, they could see and inspected the area. Irowe peered down to the cavern floor where a strange carved wall overlooked the pool. Qonahmir insisted it was nothing; Irowe looked around for a way down without breaking her legs.

  
“Where are you going?” Amuril called out.

  
“I want a look at that, it seems important.”

  
“Irowe, _don’t_ wander off-”

  
She waved her hand back at him and turned down a narrow pathway. Amuril muttered a prayer to the cavern roof before patrolling the ledge, doing his best to keep an eye on both his charges as they poked around in the gods-forsaken crypt.

  
Irowe walked first to the falls and refilled her waterskin, grateful for a chance to relax without worrying about something stabbing her in the back. She chewed a red mountain flower bulb and turned to the wall, unsurprised to see a plaque written in the dragon language at the bottom. A carving of a dragon’s head, eerily similar to the carvings on the footboards at High Hrothgar, overshadowed the plaque.

  
“What’s this mean?” Irowe murmured, running her hand over the etched marks.

  
Qonahmir was silent. _Sulking_ was a better description, and she was starting to realize the red dragon did that _a lot_. Irowe exhaled and prodded the dragon for answers, feeling it uncurl and snap back into a ball and hiss at her. Irowe slammed her fist on the wall and _forced_ it to answer her.

  
 _Nonvul bron, dahmaan daar rot do fin fodiiz bormah!_ Qonahmir snapped. _Nii los heyv do enook mun wah lahney voth ahkrin ahrk zin, leh rok **feim** vodahmin kotin vulom._

  
“And that means?” Qonahmir curled into a tighter, angrier ball in her neck. “What happened to promising to help me with this dragon business, hmm?”

  
 _Fade._ Was the sullen response.

  
“ _Feim!_ ” The word resonated across the cavern.

  
Irowe studied her arms and robes; apart from a blue glow she was transparent. Like a ghost. She touched the stone wall and found when she focused she could pass through it. Her concentration was waning however and she jerked her hand back out, rubbing her fingers against her palm. Already her hand was returning back to normal.

  
Irowe examined the rest of the cavern floor. It seemed to go on forever away from the word wall, though the vegetation stopped at the sunlight’s edge. She ate another red flower on her way back up, grimacing at the stringy texture.

  
When she reached the ridge the other mer were sitting on the benches ringing the ancient throne. They’d been in this tomb for hours: they were all exhausted and had been ready to leave since they first _entered_ the catacombs. Fallon inspected the two dozen arrows he’d scavenged from the skeleton archers, and Amuril swallowed the flowers Irowe offered from her satchel.

  
“I think it’s across there, I didn’t see anything down there.” Irowe pointed across the bridge. Fallon sighed and collected the millennia old arrows into his quiver before following the two Altmer over the chasm.

  
“Hold on-” Amuril threw a fireball at the other side and nodded with satisfaction as several skeletons either disintegrated or fell to pieces from the explosion. A surviving archer met its end by a bolt of shock magic. The way forward was blocked by a series of three gates. Irowe was certain that Jurgen’s tomb lay through there, what she _wasn’t_ certain of was how to reach it.

  
Fallon crept up to the overhang where the last archer was and surveyed the area; Amuril and Irowe investigated the gates and the strange stones leading to them. The stones glowed red as the mer walked past, and the nearest gate opened. They paused and once nothing foul ran out to greet them the couple tested the other stones. Each stone corresponded to a gate, but they only opened for a few seconds before closing. In addition, the distance between the last stone and the first gate was too great to cover, even with magical assistance.

  
Magic. Nord magic: _dragon magic_ , Irowe realized, was the key. She could use the running shout or the ghost shout to get in. This was the tomb of the Greybeards’ founder after all, and it made sense that his resting place would be sealed behind a Thu’um locked entrance.

  
“I see why Arngeir sent me here, it’s a puzzle. I have to use the shout to get through.”

  
“Or...” Amuril said before standing in front of the first stone. The stone glowed red and the first gate opened. Fallon took the hint and stood by the second stone, raising that gate. The passageway stood open, the gates held up by the three mer.

  
Irowe’s shoulders dipped. “But it’s _supposed_ to be done this way, to prove I’m dragonborn.”

  
“I don’t think the dead _care_ much, Irowe.” Amuril replied, leaning on his stone.

  
She growled and managed _not_ to snap back at her husband. They were all tired, she reminded herself, and the sooner they retrieved the horn the better. Irowe turned back to the raised gates.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ” She shouted, racing across the rocks and much farther than was needed into the passageway.

  
At least she knew for certain that she _could_ have made it, were she alone. The last gate closed behind her, now that the last stone was no longer active. There was however, a chain that when pulled raised all three gates permanently, and Amuril and Fallon walked through them to join her.

  
Surprisingly the stairway did not lead to a room filled with draugr, or anything at all it seemed. It was also devoid of torches; save one lit brazier in the center of what they hoped was a small room. Amuril tossed a magelight as far down the room as he could: it was a long room although by all signs, empty. It didn’t make sense however, as every nook and cranny of this cavern had been filled with fallen Nords. For this room to be empty...

  
The mer had their answer as the floor tiles clicked when they stepped on them.

  
“Back, back! _Everyone back!_ ”

  
They pressed themselves against the back wall and prepared for draugr and whatever ancient Nordic trap they’d unwittingly set off. No attack came.

  
Irowe inched forward until her boot slid against the trapped plate. She pressed her foot down lightly on the tile, and again and again, finally stepping on its center. Nothing happened.

  
“Whatever it is, it doesn't work anymore.” She continued testing the tiles, her fellow mer following exactly in her footsteps.

  
It wasn’t hard to tell where she’d stepped from the amount dust in the room. She found herself wondering if Tiber Septim had had to endure this cursed place or if the Greybeards welcomed _him_ with open arms. Well they _would_ , since he was a _Nord_. Or Atmoran- whatever in Oblivion the dremora had been. It didn’t look as if anyone had been in these rooms since the tomb was built in the early First Era.

  
The traps went on down a short flight of stairs and towards what looked like a cave-in. Irowe stepped down on the first tile-

  
Flames shot up past her eyes and she stumbled back with a yelp into Amuril. He helped her to her feet as the plate released and the fire stopped.

  
“You alright?”

  
“Startled, that’s all.”

  
Amuril conjured another magelight, this time throwing it down the caved-in passage revealing buried rubble and protruding dragon statues.

  
“How long is this?”

  
“Hang on-” Irowe sprinted across the ticking tiles, flames spouting up after her heels touched the stones.

  
She leapt to a pile of rocks and hugged the wall, looking back at her companions as the flames shot past her head. The fire trap died a few seconds later with nothing to depress it, reseating itself with a loud click. The young mage looked around, seeing that there did look to be a path through the debris just big enough for a mer to stand on.

  
“The rubble must have drained them ages ago. Fallon, you next.” She called out.

  
If she could sprint the distance so could Amuril, but Fallon was a good foot shorter than both of them, mostly in the legs. The young Bosmer backed up for a running start and dashed across the stone tiles. The clicking of the fire traps crept up behind him until he hadn’t even stepped off the trap before the fire spouted. He still had two tiles to go when one went off underneath him.

  
Irowe snatched Fallon forward by his collar and threw him against the wall, running a novice frost spell over anything she thought was burning. Fallon frowned and wiped ice off his face, glowering at Irowe.

  
“Thanks...” He dusting ice off his armor.

  
Amuril joined them on the rubble and once the traps reset they inched around the larger boulders and timbers down the passageway. At last the cave-in gave way to a large room, although the floor was nearly covered in fire traps as far as Amuril’s magelight could illuminate. _Nearly_ : there was a raised dais in what appeared to be the middle of the room covered in white glistening stones. Hopefully whatever that was meant the end of the fire traps.

  
This time they ran together, Irowe and Amuril holding onto Fallon and half dragging him by the end onto the dais. The flames licked at their heels but stopped at the stairs. Irowe sat down as they all caught their breath. She frowned and tugged her hand free of the floor, a sticky substance-

  
One of the mer shrieked as an enormous darkness descended upon them. Irowe rolled into something tall, sturdy and hairy- the beast spun around. Eight black eyes and an ugly mandible hissed back at her. Amuril hurled a fireball at the giant spider, but the flames only showed them it had dozens of smaller allies. He threw down a wall of flames between the dais and the largest group, Fallon hastily picked them off.

  
Irowe stabbed the spider’s foot with her knife and dived back underneath it, dodging a frightening black stinger in its abdomen. She thrust upwards and did her best to rip a hole through its belly. The queen screeched and reared, scurrying backwards away from her blade.

  
The queen howled and rushed towards Fallon, only backing off when Amuril tried to burn its face off. Irowe glanced back towards the passageway before slicing one of the giant spider’s legs clean through. She hissed and whirled on Irowe.

  
“ _Feim!_ ” Irowe shouted, before running back towards the closest pile of rubble. The queen followed, screaming at the flames but determined to catch the prey that’d caused the most anguish. Irowe reached the debris and climbed as high as she could, though she was only at eye-height with the spider. The queen reared up... and fell backward.

  
A dozen fire traps exploded with fire as the frostbite queen collapsed under her own weight, its legs writhing and finally only twitching in memory of life. Between the fires and the magic lights, they peered around the room. The spiders had been dealt with.

  
Irowe Shouted again and rejoined Amuril and Fallon on the dais, shaking her arms with a whine. She was covered in spider guts and gore. She hated this tomb, hated Nords, and hated damned Arngeir for sending her after this stupid horn. He’d be lucky if she didn’t break it over her knee in front of them when this was all over.

  
The fires revealed a hollow in one of the walls, and the alcove deepened until it led to a wooden door. Through it was a less-cobweb filled and deserted room, a gate at the end of it. And beyond the gate across a walkway lay an elaborate tomb. Irowe tugged on the chain to release the gate and entered the room. As she crossed the walkway the earth shook; Irowe was too tired to care anymore. If it wanted to kill her, it’d have to try _after_ she shouted it across the room.

  
Thankfully, it was only stone pillars. Likely activated when the chain was pulled, and another sign that she was the first dragonborn the Greybeards had sent on this errand. The Altmer grit her teeth and stormed over to the tomb.

  
“Where...”A wave of cold washed over her as she saw the clenched carved hand on top of the tomb was empty. “Where’s the horn?” Irowe rushed around the tomb, moving burial urns and linen wraps hoping it had fallen down when the pillars rose. There was no sign of a horn.

  
“No, no. No no no no no...”

  
Fallon examined two dead draugr on either side of the tomb’s platform. Amuril reached into the stone fist and extracted a rolled note, which he read aloud.

  
“Dragonborn.” He raised his eyes and looked to Irowe who was running her hands over her face. “It is urgent that I speak with you. Go to the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood. Rent the attic room. I will meet you there. Signed: a friend.”

  
“A _friend_?!” She yelled into the darkness. “What sort of friend does this?!”

  
Amuril thwapped her with the rolled note. “Irowe. Obviously someone _stole_ it. We will find them. They _want_ us to find them.”

  
“Yes, because that’s reassuring...” Fallon murmured.

  
Amuril squinted at the Bosmer but said nothing to him. “We’ll find them, we’ll find the horn, and then you can return it at your leisure.” The elder mage recast his candlelight spell. Irowe stood up and walked over to the pools of water and the still dripping statues inside them.

  
“ _Fus Ro!_ ” The nearest statue cracked and leaned heavily against its neighbor. Dirt fell from the ceiling and settled on the floor and in the water. Irowe’s shoulders dipped.

  
“If you’re done?” Irowe growled; he took that as a yes. “Now come on, let’s get out of this damned cave.” Amuril tucked the note into his satchel and strode down the walkway.

  
“Wouldn’t it be easier to go this way?” Fallon asked, pointing to the small room behind the tomb.

  
“That goes further into the barrow-”

  
“The thief got in here somehow, and there’s wind coming down it.”

  
Irowe sat down on the tomb’s dais and chucked an ancient Nordic coin into the pools, watching it skip five times before hitting the wall. Fallon pointed to the two dead draugr guarding the Greybeard’s tomb.

  
“Look whoever this person is, they didn’t sneak past the way we came: there’d be dead draugr everywhere. So this must be an exit.”

  
Amuril shook his head, but remembered the fire traps that lay behind them. And the spiders. And the walking entailed to reach the surface regardless of the path they chose.

  
“Fine. Fine...”

  
Irowe stomped her feet and followed the two mer through the small room into a narrow crevice that led steadily upwards. In some parts it was slick from stars only knew what - hopefully rain or groundwater - but thankfully they were the only ones in the tunnel. After a small eternity of hiking with only the magelights to see by they came to a wall with a lever on the side. Pulling the lever revealed a hidden stone door that slid into the ground, faint candlelight and the smell of rain wafting in from the opening. It was one of the libraries they’d explored near the entrance of the barrow.

  
“Would’ve been nice of them to leave this door open. Asshole...” Fallon muttered as they stole back through the halls and over the dead draugr, necromages and skooma dealers.

  
“Oh but we would have missed out on such a _wonderful_ adventure.” Amuril said sarcastically, stepping over a deceased conjurer.

  
“Behave, both of you.” Irowe said.

  
It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d dealt with the various attackers, and the weather outside. Hopefully the storm had let up. If it came to the worst they could set up camp a ways north from here, just sleep the day off; _after_ she’d scrubbed off the spider viscera and undead filth from her body.

  
The magelights faded as lit torches and dim sunlight illuminated the halls. The three Justiciars stepped out into the last rays of daylight as the sun set behind the Druadachs. The rain had indeed stopped, although the clouds were thick enough to hide the stars and any magicka they could share with the exhausted Altmer.

  
“There were some mudcrabs in the marsh. We could have that for dinner.”

  
“All I really want is my sleeping roll.” Fallon admitted. “And a bath, I don’t care where.”

  
“You want to swim in the Sea of Ghosts?” Amuril smirked and looked down to their friend.

  
Irowe chuckled and walked towards the stairs. “Well he’s not swimming in the marsh-”

  
“ _Hold if you value your lives!_ ”

  
Irowe tried to call a flame spell but only managed embers; Amuril was in a similar state. Fallon notched an arrow but eight more aimed back at them. The newcomers were wearing mail, various furs, and blue cloaks. Stormcloaks. The commander, a towering bald man with a bear pelt for a coat, stood at the top of the stairs.

  
“What business do Thalmor have in the barrows?”

  
“We’re _not_ Thalmor.” Amuril lied.

  
Admittedly, they looked nothing like Thalmor. Their mages robes and leather armor were filthy and stained with all manners of blood and gore, and their faces smudged with soot and sweat. A day’s trek through a barrow was a convincing disguise. Usually.

  
“Oh, like you high elves would willingly spend time with cannibals.” The commander pointed an axe at their archer.

  
Fallon pulled his bow back tighter. “Hey!”

  
“Fallon.” Amuril placed his hand around the Bosmer’s arrowhead and gently lowered it to the ground. Their lead cleared his throat and turned back to the Stormcloak leader.

  
“What do you want?”

  
“You out of Skyrim!” One of their archers yelled, and a chorus of agreement echoed across the swamp. The Stormcloak commander nodded and crossed his arms across a barrel chest.

  
“However, since we can’t have that... we’ll settle for your heads.” The archers and surrounding soldiers rang out ‘ayes’. Fallon raised his bow again. Amuril didn’t stop him.

  
“I’m sorry, I can’t agree to that.”

  
“We won’t be needing your permission.” The Nord answered darkly.

  
Irowe swallowed and clenched her hands. She was out of magicka, and Amuril likely was too. Fallon could maybe get off two shots before the archers took him down. She looked over at the barrow door: if they could only get back inside they could hide in the catacombs. Even better, the hidden tunnel their ‘friend’ had resealed before their arrival. The trouble was getting inside the door without getting killed.

 _You can always shout_ , Qonahmir purred from her nape.

  
Depleted magicka or no, _that_ wasn’t her concern; her concern was _which_ of the three shouts she knew would work best. Force would work on the commander or some of the archers, but not all of them: that wasn’t it then. Fade would only work on her... at least she thought so. There was no time to test it and if it didn’t, the archers would shoot her companions.

  
Sprint might be her best choice: she could rush up the stairs and attack the commander, startling the archers and maybe getting a few of them in the confusion. Still, she didn’t like the odds, for any of them. None of the shouts she knew were particularly _helpful_ in a battle situation, damn the Greybeards’ pacifism.

  
 _A pity you do not understand fire as the_ dov _do_ , the dragon whispered under her ear before slithering to the recesses of her mind to see what she decided. Irowe squared her shoulders and positioned herself in front of the two mer. Perhaps if she shoved them to the ground before running up the stairs, the first arrows would miss and they could run for cover. She had to hope-

  
One of the farthest Stormcloaks gurgled followed by his brethren’s screams. The stone hollow exploded with light and the Stormcloak archers and commander cried out. A few arrows impacted the stones behind the mer. Amuril grabbed Irowe and Fallon’s arms in a death grip and dragged them back towards the metal door, slamming it shut behind them.

  
The sounds of a battle eked through cracks in the door but the mer continued racing blindly down the corridor, their eyes still seeing white from the gigantic flash of magelight. Amuril stumbled and Irowe wrapped her arm under his. He collapsed into her.

  
“Amuril, you didn’t- _You idiot!_ ” Irowe shouted. “Fallon! Magicka potion! _Now!_ ”

  
“I had to...”

  
Irowe scooped him into her arms and carried him down the passage. Some Altmeri wizards were skilled enough - and stupid enough - to substitute their life-force for magicka in times of need. Amuril, being a master of Alteration and about five other schools was certainly skilled enough. There was no need for him to do this- she had it under control, why didn’t he see that?

  
They reached the small library with the passage; Fallon was tearing the shelves apart. He uncorked one bottle and sniffed it, gagged, and put it back. He muttered something and grabbed a pestle and a handful of dried flora, running out into the hallway to raid the necromancers.

  
Irowe fumbled around in her satchel for a red mountain flower, noting with worry how pale Amuril was. She fed him the last bulb she had, wiped cold sweat off his face and pulled him upright.

  
She heard armored footsteps, too heavy to be Fallon’s, and too many. Irowe turned and inhaled. She would Shout the Stormcloaks back to Windhelm if they were fool enough to let her.

  
It was not Stormcloaks that descended to the hall however, but a small squad of legionnaires.

  
Irowe and Qonahmir examined them. A female Orc in the back was the leader, but a Breton boy bore the robes and alchemist’s satchel of a healer. Never one to shy from a fight, Irowe locked eyes with the Orc.

  
“Magicka potion. _Now._ ”

  
“Irowe...” Amuril coughed. “Would it _kill you_ to ask nicely?”

  
The Legionnaires kept their grips on their gladiuses; their commander squinted her eyes at Irowe but didn’t move. Amuril coughed.

  
A dark brown and red blur ducked past the legionnaires and knelt next to Amuril. “Here. Found this.”

  
Amuril reached for it, weakly protesting as Fallon swatted his hand away and held the potion to Amuril’s lips. Irowe noted it was a larger blue phial, and from the angle it looked nearly full. That should be enough to stabilize him after that idiotic stunt.

  
Irowe’s hands shot to her hips. “Thanks for _nothing_.”

  
“What are Thalmor doing in a Nordic tomb?”

  
Irowe blinked and continued staring pointedly at the commander. Like Oblivion she’d answer their stupid questions. She’d rather kiss a _cow_.

  
After a very prolonged minute of eye-contact Irowe turned her back on them and went over to Amuril. He was breathing easier and trying to sit up. Fallon watched the legionnaires, darting his eyes back to the Malciors for guidance and receiving none.

  
More footsteps.

  
“Kharrash? What do we have?”

  
Irowe glanced over. A sun-kissed Imperial in heavy plate and a once-tidy braid of dark brown hair walked over to the Orc. Judging from his words and the way she bowed her head, he was her commander.

  
“Thalmor, sir.” Kharrash shot Irowe a look. “ _Belligerent_ Thalmor.”

  
“If that’s a fancy word for ‘refusing to help you because you wouldn’t help us’ then yes, we _are_ ‘belligerent’-”

  
“I apologize, Legate. My wife can be somewhat short when she’s tired.” Amuril said, speaking over Irowe. She opened her mouth but a tightening grip on her wrist told her to keep quiet.

  
“Then perhaps you can explain your presence here.” The Legate asked, his mustache twitching into a thin half-smile.

  
“There was a falsified report of a Talos shrine in the area. All we found were skooma traffickers and necromancers.”

  
“You’re the commander?”

  
“Most days.” Amuril answered with a half-smile of his own.

  
“Name?”

  
“Galen.” Amuril answered wearily without blinking.

  
The Legate accepted the name and turned to Kharrash. “Commander. We need all the eyes we have. We’re losing daylight.” He nodded back to the three mer. “They can find their own way out.”

  
She opened her mouth to object but closed it again. “Come on, men, aboveground.” She shot Irowe another dirty look - which was returned - and followed the rest of her unit back up the hall toward the entrance.

  
Amuril groaned and climbed to his feet, resting a hand on Fallon’s shoulder and his right arm around Irowe’s. They slowly made their way out of the tomb once again.

  
“Galen?” Irowe asked.

  
“On the off-chance their report reaches Iachesar, I don’t want him to trace it back to us. Back to you.” Amuril said, his gaze heavy on her. They walked up the stairs to the antechamber. “We need to be back in the Pale by tomorrow, or at least close to the border.”

  
“What about those Stormcloaks?” Fallon asked.

  
They opened the iron doors and walked out into a faint drizzle, the sound of legionnaires moving about the marsh in every direction. There were maybe a score of Stormcloaks, laying scattered in the water and grass.

  
Amuril sighed, his eyes glazing over. “I don’t think they’ll be a problem...”

  
Irowe spotted the Legate; he was kneeling with a medic and an Amulet of Arkay over a Dunmer in light armor. A few more legionnaires were hobbling off towards the mountain and no doubt their camp. The handful that stopped and stared at the three mer held their gaze for a few moments before returning to the grizzly post-battle work. They paid no more attention to the Thalmor as they limped north towards the coast.

  
The wind picked up again and the scent of rain was in the air. Irowe sighed. At least they would have plenty of water to cook and bathe with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
> _Nonvul bron, dahmaan daar rot do fin fodiiz bormah_   
>  _Nii los heyv do enook mun wah lahney voth ahkrin ahrk zin_   
>  _leh rok **feim** vodahmin kotin vulom_
> 
>  
> 
> Noble Nords, remember these words of the Hoar Father  
> It is [the] duty of every man to live bravely and honorably  
> lest he **Fade** forgotten into darkness
> 
> (Word Wall for Fade)


	9. Sleeping Giants

> _Most Nords hold that the Dragonborn is training at High Hrothgar, and that's why he hasn't been seen in Skyrim. Some though, are beginning to wonder..._

* * *

  
WINTER’S chill reached even the small lumber town nestled between the Throat, the Brittleshins and the White River in the more hospitable south of Skyrim. The roaring fires and crowd of warm bodies made the Sleeping Giant Inn a welcome respite from the winds. It was Middas the 17th, only a fortnight before the New Life Festival. With Riften under the tight fist of the Stormcloaks and Helgen a charred ruin, the Pale Pass was the only Imperial-safe route in from Cyrodiil, and Riverwood was the first safe haven. Every late traveler heading north to visit their loved ones could be found in the inn.

  
What the three mer _couldn’t_ find was the innkeeping staff.

  
Amuril stepped toward the stream of people for the fifth time. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could-”

  
The Nord shoved past them. Amuril held up his hand to catch an Imperial noblewoman’s attention. “Pardon me, madam, but I-” She pirouetted and walked away without a sign she’d even heard him.

  
Amuril tried a young Breton next. “Excuse me young man; do you know where the staff-” The boy continued squeezing past people and shot out the door like he’d stolen something. Given the tight quarters, he probably _had_.

  
“Does anyone in this inn _work_ here?” Amuril muttered in exasperation, standing on his toes to peer through the crowd of heads.

  
Irowe smirked down at her husband. “It’s a shame you can’t see over them like I do.”

  
Amuril dropped to his heels and wheeled on her. “I am _not_ short-”

  
“I’ll see if I can reach the counter.” Fallon exclaimed hastily.

  
“Fallon-” He ducked behind an elbow before Amuril could nab his sleeve. Irowe wiped her nose and continued smirking.

  
“I’m not short.” Amuril protested.

  
“Of course not. I apologize.” He nodded graciously- “You’re _travel-size_.” Irowe teased, sliding her hands around his slim waist.

  
Amuril wiggled away and wagged a finger in her face. “You are only taller by the narrowest of margins. I am eye-level with _your nose_ , young woman-”

  
“And most Nords.”

  
“Respect your elders!”

  
Fallon cleared his throat. “I’d ask if you two wanted a room, but I don’t know if they have any.” Amuril retreated further into the shadows and settled for glowering at both of them.

  
Fallon stepped closer so they could hear him over the bard and chatter. “Cook says they’re the only game in town. We’re looking for someone named Delphine, she runs the place. She’ll know if there’s bunks open. Uh-” He wrinkled his nose and held up fingers as he listed her description. “Blue dress. Blonde. Short. Old. Cranky. Burns biscuits-”

  
“No aversions to heights?” Amuril asked.

  
Fallon frowned; Amuril pointed to a small figure climbing a very rickety ladder. The Breton in question, a blonde woman in a faded blue dress, was precariously perched on the top rung. Her skirt was tucked between her legs and nails in her mouth, a string of colored paper lanterns in her hand. She was trying to reach the tie beam’s hook and place the lantern _without_ showing the patrons her knickers, or falling.

  
The ladder wobbled as she jumped slightly, still a few inches short of the hook. “What in Auri-El’s name is she doing?” Irowe muttered-

  
The woman jumped again. This time the ladder tipped over.

  
With a strength and agility that belied her age, she wrapped her arms around the tie beam, keeping her knees together as her dress threatened to hang down. Amuril’s hand shot out and grabbed the ladder with Telekinesis, slamming it back against the beam. A handful of people looked up and gasped; two men took the ladder and held it still as she climbed back down. Amuril cleared his throat and tried to rest his hand against a pillar nonchalantly.

  
“I guess that’s her.” Irowe muttered, watching the little blonde climb down to the floor. “Come on, before we lose her.”

  
Amuril started into the crowd and had to immediately jump back out of the way of a Nord woman with a brimming drink tray. He cleared his throat and waited for the people to pass. Irowe fumed; they’d be waiting forever and this Delphine would disappear again.

  
Irowe stepped into the stream of people and started walking against them, forcing the other people to flow around her. Amuril fell in behind her, and Fallon behind him. Irowe walked along the edge of the open hearth for some added height. She caught a glimpse of cornflower blue heading for the counter and made a beeline for it.

  
“You there!” Irowe called in her most authoritative voice. Delphine’s feet stuttered but she turned and looked around. “You’re Delphine?”

  
“Depends on who’s asking.” She said, the corner of her mouth picking up. “Wait, you’re the one that grabbed the ladder.” She said, pointing a finger at Amuril.

  
“Well I- yes. Yes, I did. I didn’t want it to hurt anyone, and we’re glad you’re alright.”

  
“Well, thanks.” She dusted off her dress and squinted at the New Life decorations dotting the main hall. “I guess that’s enough lanterns for now. Now, can I help you?”

  
“Yes, we’d like to rent rooms for the night.”

  
Delphine bit her cheeks. “Alright... We still have some beds but they’re spread out. Three?”

  
“Two will be adequate.”

  
She frowned and nodded to Fallon. “You’re going to make him sleep on the floor?”

  
Fallon blinked. “I mean, I _can_ -”

  
“ _Of course not!_ ” Amuril exclaimed in disbelief. “One double and one single.”

  
The elderly Breton exhaled and glanced around at the doors ringing the main hall, counting under her breath. “Honestly, it’d be easier to split you up. We don’t have any doubles left...”

  
“Is the attic room still available?” Irowe asked.

  
Delphine’s eyebrow rose steadily. Irowe crossed her arms; there was no point in beating around the bush. They needed the attic room to meet this ‘friend’ character, so they might as well rent it.

  
“Does it _look_ like we have an attic room?”

  
Fallon stared up at the open thatched ceiling then back at the mer. He shrugged. “I dunno, you could put some hammocks up there or something. It’d be interesting.”

  
The innkeeper chuckled and shook her head. “You’re worse than Frodnar.” She sighed and hoisted a sack over her shoulder. “Look, I still have three boxes worth of lanterns and wreaths to put up, so if you want three beds, it’ll be twenty septims each. Now, I can promise they _aren’t_ together but I can maybe put you two in the same room. If that’s not good enough, you can try Whiterun.”

  
Irowe scowled down at the woman and looked over at Amuril. Amuril shrugged.

  
“Amuril, you _can’t_ be serious.”

  
Delphine threw up her hands. “I’ve got work to do, so, if you’ll excuse me.”

  
Irowe watched her go, mouth agape. She turned back to Amuril and inclined her head pointedly toward the departing Breton.

  
Amuril sighed. “Irowe, we can come back tomorrow, or on our way back to Haafingar. After the holidays.”

  
“I _need_ that damn _horn_.” Irowe hissed. “ _Now._ ”

  
She slipped out before the innkeeper closed the door and followed her around to the back of the building. Irowe reached the corner and paused to recharge the Concealment spell and think of what to say. She needed a sympathetic story, something common but unique. Close to the truth...

  
The young Breton from earlier was perched on the railing of a smithing area. He was counting a purse that likely wasn’t his. Irowe nodded and walked after Delphine; that was it.

  
“Excuse me. Excuse me-”

  
Delphine looked over her shoulder. She chuckled and dropped the sack into a cart of cabbages. “Persistent little bugger, aren’t you?”

  
“When I say ‘a friend’ I mean a thief. They stole something very valuable, intended for my uncle. An old war horn. It’s practically an antique. They said if I didn’t meet them in the attic room _here_ I’d never see it again.” Delphine folded her arms over the edge of the cart. Irowe continued, going into imaginary details. “The horn was my great-grandfather’s you see, and Malata finally decided to pass it down but with the rebellion the carriage was waylaid near Riften and-”

  
“Alright, _alright_. I get the picture.” Delphine crinkled her nose. “Look, anyone asking for an attic room has clearly never _been_ in the Giant. I mean, maybe they overheard the kids. Frodnar seems to think he’s a Wood Elf and can climb the roof, calls it an attic but there _isn’t_...”

  
She shook her head and walked over to a patch of earth with little shoots; Irowe followed. Delphine bent down and snatched weeds out of the scant vegetable garden. Irowe looked down at her feet and quietly stepped off a row of budding plants.

  
Delphine nodded down at the garden and the handful of weeds. “How about this? For two decims, if I see anyone poking around or asking for an attic room, I’ll let you know. Does that sound fair?”

  
“How about you tell me if anyone’s poking around,” Irowe replied, lowering her voice. “And I don’t break your-”

  
“Ulfnar: still have that cold?”

  
A guard in a golden tunic stopped by the fence and rubbed his nose. “It’s better, Miss. Thank you.”

  
Irowe glared at him. How had she not seen him there? He was stomping down the old cobblestones like a mammoth, she should have _heard_ him at least.

  
Delphine shook her head. “It’s the least I can do. If you men weren’t here, anyone could just walk in and say,” She locked eyes with Irowe. “Threaten to hurt me or my staff.”

  
“Or pinch purses from your customers.” Irowe offered, narrowing her eyes.

  
Ulfnar shrugged and adjusted his shield. “As long as it’s lowlifes and ruffians, not dragons. No offense miss, but this place would go up like tinder, being a lumber town and all.”

  
“I know. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. Place feels safe with you boys around.” Delphine dropped the weeds over the small fence and patted the man’s shoulder. He beamed and continued his patrol, his steps a little lighter.

  
Irowe ground her teeth but counted out eight decims into the woman’s palm, pressing hard enough to push her hand down.

  
“And three beds...” She grumbled before walking back to the porch.

  
“Do you want dinners too? Or baths? Frodnar can fix your boots up for you-”

  
“ _No_.”

  
Irowe pushed the door open and walked over to Amuril. His eyebrows raised in question; she rolled her eyes but nodded. She wasn’t about to admit she threatened - or failed to threaten - a little old lady. Amuril frowned on that sort of thing.

  
“Now we don’t have an attic room, but we have some open beds in this room on the left.” Irowe scowled down at the woman who suddenly appeared at her elbow. Delphine pushed through the crowd to a door near the ale barrels. “Here you are.”

  
Inside there were eight beds ringing the walls, four of them already claimed with rusted armor or overflowing packs, two of them occupied. Irowe caught the faint upturn of Amuril’s lip and an eye roll; he walked over to the nearest empty bed and set his pack down. Fallon watched them and hesitantly put his things on the foot of the bed.

  
“Aah-” Fallon jumped and clutched the pack to his chest. “I can put you in one across the hall.”

  
“Nothing closer?”

  
Delphine shrugged. “Sorry.” She gestured for him to follow and after a pleading glance around the room he did.

  
Irowe dropped her pack on the floor and flopped on the bed. She loosened her boots and kicked them off, inching up the mattress until her head bumped the headboard. She glanced down and wiggled her feet.

  
“I’m not asking for much, I just want to lodge in _one_ bed in this country where my feet aren’t dangling off the edge. Just one.”

  
Amuril chuckled. “You get used to it.”

  
She growled and rolled over, propping her hands under her chin, watching him settle on clothes for the morning. He had spent the majority of his life in Hammerfell among the Redguards, or at least men. Of course, being a shorter mer, it likely didn’t bother him as much as most other Altmer.

  
“I suppose they only have dwarf beds in Hammerfell.”

  
Amuril stopped unrolling a tunic to stare at the ceiling in thought. “Well, most cities _are_ Dwemeri in origin, but they were shorter than Altmer by almost a head. Well, we believe they were. There’s actually an article from the College of Whispers that posits-”

  
Irowe pulled him onto the bed and wrapped him in her legs and arms. “Hush. I’m complaining.” She kissed him on the cheek. Amuril paused a moment before nodding.

  
“Yes dear.”

  
She gave him another kiss and nuzzled his cheek, hoping that would settle the nervous urges in her stomach. She’d noticed in the months following Qonahmir’s demise that she was more... jealous around him. Possessive might be a better word. Their relationship wasn’t one that tended toward grandiose romantic displays, but small affections. They were both still adjusting to her new impulses, but Irowe at least was enjoying it and Amuril hadn’t refused her yet.

  
They both turned to the doorway as the door pushed open. Fallon stood in the threshold, looking guilty and holding a book.

  
“Are there no beds over there?” Amuril asked, tucking his fingers between Irowe’s arms and trying to pry himself loose.

  
“No, just... bunch of drunks.” Fallon held the copy of _Song of the Alchemists_ to his chest and thumbed the fraying spine. “I thought I might get more quiet over here, since your roommates are sleeping, but-”

  
“Far be it from me to keep you from a good book.” Amuril untangled himself from Irowe’s grasping fingers. He left two decims on the table and gestured to the chair. “You’ll like chapter seventeen.”

  
Amuril took Irowe’s wrist and led her outside, swatting her hand away from his waist, and sat down at the table nearest the main door. Fallon pushed the door to and retreated to his book, leaving the two of them to work out how to behave in public.

  
They watched the crowd wax and wane, as the locals wandered off to their own houses and the travelers shuffled to their rented rooms. As the night wore on it became harder and harder to keep her eyes open. When the main hall was mostly clear - or at least she could see the far wall for more than a minute - they retired.

  
Amuril yawned and, upon opening his eyes again and seeing Fallon still curled up in the chair with his book, blinked. “Fallon. You really should go to bed sometime soon.”

  
Irowe recognized the flicker of panic in those brown eyes, and Fallon’s pack tucked discretely under the chair. She laid her hand on Amuril’s chest. “Amuril. He’s fine. Let him finish his book.”

  
“He’s going to fall asleep in that chair and have a crick in his neck-”

  
“And if he does, that’s fine. I’ll heal him in the morning.” She nodded to Fallon. “You’re fine, Fallon.”

  
Fallon nodded slowly, still frozen in an anxious ball in the corner of his chair. She wasn’t sure why he was acting stranger than usual tonight, but frankly, she wouldn’t want to spend the night with a roomful of drunks either. If he was still here in the morning she would talk to Delphine or the cook about a refund for his bed. Irowe fluffed the blankets and settled underneath them; if they wouldn’t refund the money, it was only twenty septims.

  
Perhaps it was the cold outside, the hot food filling her stomach, the heady spiced wine, or the warm covers of an actual bed instead of the fur roll she’d be sleeping in for the next four weeks. For whatever reason, Irowe barely remembered lying in bed before falling asleep.

  
The pungent smell of hartshorn and lavender roused her, but only enough for her eyes to open. Irowe glanced around with bleary eyes. The hall’s hearth was burning low, flickering shadows on the walls. It looked like most had gone to bed hours ago; there were only a handful of very drunk travelers still at the table, and only half of those were sluggishly moving. The bed was warm and the air just crisp enough for her to crave the covers. _Why_ wasn’t she still asleep?

  
The half-lit figure of the Breton innkeeper was her answer.

  
“You sleep like the dead.”

  
Visions of blue eyes danced in the darkness. Irowe shivered. “The dead don’t sleep...” Irowe huffed and burrowed further under the blankets. “What do you want, old woman?” Irowe huffed.

  
“Well, you did pay me to say when someone showed up.”

  
Irowe immediately sat up. “Where?”

  
Delphine stood back and shielded the candle’s flame. “There’s an old wine cellar in the main bedroom. I told him it led to the attic and locked him in there.”

  
 _Twenty septims well spent_. “Thank you.”

  
“I should probably warn you, he sounds pissed, and not in the usual meaning if you understand-”

  
“Yes yes- thank you for your assistance. I can handle it from here.” Irowe fumbled under the bed for her boots. She glared up at the Breton. “By myself.”

  
Delphine shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s in the wardrobe in the room across the hall. Farthest left.”

  
She departed, taking the candle with her. Irowe’s eyes readjusted to the darkness. So the thief finally showed up? About damn time. She was starting to worry they wouldn’t come.

  
Irowe patted Amuril’s stomach and he groaned. “Amuril. _Come on_. Get up.”

  
He grumbled something half-asleep but rolled over toward the edge. Irowe tied her hair back and crept into the main hall; he would follow eventually. She tiptoed across the floorboards, ducking into the mentioned bedroom. It was the same size as the one she shared with seven others, but with only one bed - large enough for her to roll around in - and a large wardrobe and modest table.

  
The wardrobe door was open; Irowe ran her hands over the back panel. The question was how to open it without alerting the thief...

  
She pressed her palms at varying intervals along the sides of the panel. Something clicked. The sheet of wood slid out of the way and cool air floated by her, a dark stairway descending into the unknown. Irowe tapped the wooden wall excitedly and stepped inside, hairs standing on end as the shadows grew.

  
It was completely dark and she couldn’t hear anything, not even breathing. Irowe cast Detect Life behind her back so it wasn’t visible to this thief. She stopped on the stairs. The room below was empty. A shiver ran up her spine; something undead then? She didn’t know the spell to detect those but it could be a vampire-

  
Something pricked her shoulder blade. Fire radiated from the sting up and down her back and her lungs struggled to breathe in. Irowe cried out as the burning reached her legs and she tumbled forward down the stairs. The stone floor was cold when she finally reached it, moaning as her shins and forearms whined at the bruises they’d received.

  
She couldn’t stand up. She was paralyzed.

  
Irowe inhaled sharply as she heard the panel close and footsteps on the stairs behind her. She did hope she hadn’t been bitten- cure disease potions were expensive. But the sting came from behind her, not in front. None of this made sense.

  
“Amuril?” Irowe whispered in Altmeris. “Amuril, don’t let it bite you. It got behind me.”

  
He didn’t answer, just kept walking down the stairs like there was no danger.

  
“Amuril, at least _say something_ so I know you heard me.”

  
“He can’t hear you.”

  
She gasped softly and tried to look over her shoulder. Altmeris, though she couldn’t place the accent. One of the colonies perhaps, but definitely Dominion. A woman’s voice.

  
Irowe began to panic; Qonahmir flailed inside her body. She came here for the horn; the note addressed her as Dragonborn. But the Thalmor _couldn’t_ know. There was no way they could know, no one had said anything and she’d been so careful-

  
She attempted to struggle as two arms slipped underneath hers and hauled her further into the room, throwing her roughly into a chair. “Amuril! _Amuril!_ ”

  
“That door is muffled.” The woman’s voice cut her off. “And don’t think anyone else will come save you: no one in this inn likes the Thalmor.”

  
Irowe stopped fighting. So... so she hadn’t been discovered? A rope wrapped around her chest and arms, tying her down to the chair. She tried moving her feet or fingers and couldn’t even manage a twitch. It didn’t matter. She needed to get out get out _get out_ -

  
“Now, you are going to answer my questions.”

  
A burst of flames hovered over a candlestick, lighting it and barely illuminating the room. She blinked and shut her eyes, shying away from the sudden flare.

  
Her eyes widened. The concealment spell. Damn everything, she hadn’t been using it at all. No wonder the innkeeper was staring at her earlier- Irowe stretched her fingers to cast the simple spell but couldn’t even manage that. They would see: they would know she was marked by the dragonsfire. It’d be child’s play to identify her, the only Altmer in Skyrim with a burnt face.

  
Irowe and her attacker looked each other in the eyes-

  
“ _Delphine?_ ”


	10. Fight at the Fork

> _The Dragon Cult built the dragon mounds, entombing the remains of dragons that fell in the war. They believed that the dragons would rise again and reward the faithful._

* * *

  
CANDLELIGHT flickered on the walls of the darkened cellar as Irowe stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. Delphine glanced down at the table and straightened a map. Irowe continued staring.

  
“ _You **bitch**_.”

  
Delphine’s face fell, more disappointed than anything. “Well, I can't say you're original-”

  
“I want my money back! Who in Oblivion do you think you are? Untie me right now!”

  
“As you wish.” Delphine said, walking around to untie her.

  
The rope went slack and Irowe dropped like a rock onto the table. She hit her head and yelped. Irowe winced and tried to soothe the ache in her forehead but without magic or the ability to even _wiggle_ her fingers, the most she could do was try and ignore it.

  
“Would you like to sit up now?” Even though the Breton was behind her she could _hear_ the smile in her voice.

  
“The moment I can _move_ will be your last.” Irowe growled. She thought better of it - she did still need the horn - but didn’t mention it. “Is this how you treat your friends? Blackmail them into meeting you, trick them into _paying you_ to set up a meeting and-”

  
Delphine shoved her upright. “You're _not_ the Dragonborn. You're a Thalmor plant. The real Dragonborn was here two months ago. He killed the dragon that dammed up the White, and no one's heard from him since.”

  
Irowe opened her mouth to retort. Who exactly was this ‘real Dragonborn’ everyone instinctively knew? Every man woman and child seemed to have the same image in their head of some strapping Nord warrior, slicing through dragonscales like butter. How prejudiced were they to just _assume_ she couldn’t be the Dragonborn of myth simply because her ears slanted up instead of sloping down?

  
However, the fewer people who knew she was Dragonborn, the less trouble it would cause for her and Amuril, and Melucar. She growled under her breath but played along with the lie. If she could get the horn as a ‘Thalmor plant’, so much the better.

  
“Well maybe he's off killing dragons-”

  
“Only the one's died.” Irowe huffed; so she’d noticed. “Where are you holding him? The Embassy?”

  
“If you’ll give me the horn, I’d be willing to tell you.”

  
She had spent a few miserable years as an inquisitor and knew the concepts even if everything else was vague from disuse. Her father had actually seen to it she went to a decent school on the subject. As long as it appeared that she was cooperating - and really, what could an old innkeeper know about the Thalmor? - she could be back in bed within the hour.

  
“Tell me where he is first.”

  
“At least show me that you have it.” They glared at each other from across the table. Irowe tried to relax and appear calm. “I have no interest in killing you, I just want the horn.”

  
Delphine studied her, weighing the options. At last she walked to a chest by the door. Irowe wiggled her fingers, testing how far her hands could move. Delphine turned and Irowe went limp; better she didn’t know the paralysis was wearing off.

  
Delphine held up the horn, a twisting and segmented cone that... Irowe stared. That was a dragon’s horn; an old dragon judging from the faded color. So Jurgen the Calm had mastered his Thu’um by killing a dragon? She wondered if Arngeir knew that.

  
The horn was placed to the side of the table and papers cleared from a map pinned to the boards. Delphine leaned over the table. “Now, where is the Dragonborn?”

  
Irowe peered behind her. “That door is muffled, you say?”

  
“Why do you-”

  
“ _Fus Ro!_ ”

  
Delphine flew back into a bookcase. Irowe didn’t have time to be smug about it as the Shout knocked her chair backwards. She hit her head for the second time that night and winced.

  
“Ow... _Feim!_ ”

  
When she concentrated the ropes and even the chair passed through her. Irowe threw her shoulders left and slowly rolled over. There was nothing dignified about crawling on the floor but with the paralysis still in her blood it was that or lie still. Irowe tried to lift her arm to the table but her hand flopped back to the ground.

  
Delphine moaned and climbed to her knees. “Oh, you’re still alive?” Irowe muttered.

  
She was actually somewhat happy - Amuril would be beyond livid (and disappointed in her) if the old woman had died. Of course there was the matter of convincing her to keep her mouth shut, that might be an issue. Irowe cast a healing spell, trying to force the poison out of her limbs. Delphine sat down and leaned against the bookshelf, just panting and staring. Oh, she knew.

  
“Akatosh... of all the people you could have picked, _why her_?”

  
“Let me know if he answers you.” Irowe grunted. Her legs were shaking but she could stand, if she put all her weight on the table. She draped the horn’s sling over her shoulder and exhaled.

  
“Now, it’s in your best interest to keep this little midnight meeting to yourself. Or I'll kill you.”

  
“You need me alive.” Delphine winced and sat straighter. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  
Irowe patted the horn at her hip. “No, I think I’m good.”

  
She clung to the walls and shelves and made her way to the stairs. Her knees quivered as she looked up to the top. One step at a time, she made her way up. She fumbled with the false door and stumbled back into her room across the hall, collapsing on the bed.

  
“Amuril. Not that you helped, but I have the horn.” Irowe whispered with a smile. She pulled the sling from under her neck and dropped it on his stomach.

  
When he showed no sign of moving Irowe sat up and leaned over. “Amuril. Love, wake up. _Amuril_.” She shook him. She put her ear to his mouth and watched his chest. He was barely breathing.

  
“Fallon. I need you up.”

  
Irowe climbed out of bed and walked over. Fallon was slumped over the table, using the book as a pillow. She held his shoulders up and checked him. Bosmer had natural resistance to poison, living in Valenwood, he shouldn’t be affected as much...

  
Fallon moaned but no matter how much she shook him or patted his cheeks, his eyes stayed closed. Irowe stared at him, at the wall; at a loss for what to do. She let him fall into her arms and carried him over to the bed; he curled up next to Amuril. If he was going to sleep it might as well be on a bed.

  
Irowe grabbed her pack and threw the horn inside, then stalked back to the cellar. Qonahmir was cackling with glee at the rage building in her head; she ignored the dragon. Sparks bounced from finger to palm in her hand as she stomped down the stairs.

  
Delphine was kneeling over a chest, now dressed in a leather cuirass, a health potion to the side.

  
“What did you do?”

  
“I can make an antidote, but-”

  
“But _what?_ ” Irowe seethed.

  
Delphine took another mouthful of the healing potion; she grimaced. She pulled out leather bracers and a helmet.

  
“You’re the Dragonborn, and the dragons are coming back. -Not just back, _back to life_.”

  
“So?”

  
“It can’t be a coincidence.” Delphine stood up and took two swords and an archery kit off the wall. “Come with me to the Tri-Hold Fork, and we’ll find out how.”

  
“There’s a black dragon. It raises them with a Shout. There: now you know.” Irowe held her hand out. “Give me the antidote.”

  
Delphine stared at her. Irowe exhaled and crossed her arms. Was this what Amuril had to put up with from the Emissaries? Why was it so hard for people to believe-

  
“Dragon _necromancy_? Are you mad?”

  
“People said the same thing about dragons coming back.” Irowe waved her arms and slapped them to her side. “You just said they were coming back to life: what answer were you expecting?”

  
Delphine stared at her, then at the wall. She shook her head and walked to another bookshelf. This one had potions lining the edges; she pushed a handful of each into a pack.

  
“We’ll see if you’re telling the truth. If we’re lucky, maybe we can kill both of them.” Delphine said, pointing her hilt toward Irowe’s nose.

  
Irowe swatted the sword away. “You can’t kill it. No one can.”

  
“Aren’t _you_ a little ray of sunshine...”

  
She blew out the candle and ran up the stairs. Irowe reluctantly followed. If this woman had a death wish, so be it. She’d change her tune when she saw Alduin. As long as they stayed down and out of sight they could just watch and make their way back to the inn after they left. Irowe walked past her and out into the freezing night, her stride purposefully long so the Breton innkeeper had to hurry to keep up. To her annoyance, Delphine had no problem matching her gait. They saddled a horse, Irowe didn’t ask who it really belonged to, and rode north.

  
Irowe wasn’t exactly... _not_ curious about what Alduin’s plan was. She knew it was far safer to stay out of its way, and that was Amuril’s intention as well. Something told her the Greybeards weren’t that keen on fighting dragons, so she hadn’t really considered investigating what the dragons were up to. As long as they stayed away from her she didn’t really care.

  
It would be good to give Qonahmir another soul to commiserate with. Maybe then the red dragon would actually _shut up_.

  
When Whiterun loomed out of the tundra’s fog they turned west, riding hard past a few guards startled to see anyone out this late. How late it was she couldn’t tell; Masser and Secunda were hidden behind clouds and so were the stars. It could be ten, it could be four. The fog only thickened as they traveled along the Brittleshins, but thankfully they didn’t encounter anything on the roads.

  
A low echoed across the mountains and the horse slid to a stop, shaking its head and trying to turn around though Delphine held it in place. Irowe slipped off the horse and kept her knees under her, a tremor creeping up her leg at the sound of the black dragon. The roar came again, clearer this time and from the west along the Druadachs. The tri-hold fork was still a few furlongs ahead when a winged shadow rose out of the fog. Delphine climbed off the horse and it sprinted for the safety of Falkreath’s forest.

  
A furlong north of the fork's pavement stood a ring of standing stones encircling a raised mound, with an footpath leading from a series of arches off to somewhere only the ancient Nords knew. In their monthly treks on the inter-hold highway Irowe had never paid it much mind: Skyrim was littered with forgotten ruins and monuments. She'd never imagined there was a dragon underneath it.

  
Irowe followed Delphine to a small hill. They laid on the tundra grass and waited. The ground bloomed with light and a joyful roar pierced the night air.

  
“Look at the size of that thing...”

  
She looked over at Delphine; the shock and fear in her face. Irowe swallowed and tried not to let it show on hers. Alduin stayed in the air and its new white minion lounged in the stone burial pit. They were talking, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. The white dragon's jaw snapped shut and they both craned their heads east; towards the hill. Delphine crawled down further and laid a hand on her hilt.

  
“You don't think they-”

  
“ _Iiz!_ ”

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
Irowe wrapped her arms around Delphine and rolled back down the hill. Ice shot through the hill and dirt exploded around them. The two women however, were glowing blue but unharmed. Irowe chuckled nervously; she hadn't expected that to work.

  
Alduin alighted on one of the monolith arches, its ebony claws carving grooves into the ancient rock. “Pahlok joor. Hi vomindoraan hin Thu’um, nuz gahrot fin rot ‘Dovah’.” The black tyrant spat.

  
“Mindok krif.” Irowe shot back.

  
Alduin laughed, a deep rumble inside its armored chest. “Ruz hi mindoraan nid, Dovah _kiir_. ”

  
She scowled but otherwise ignored the insult. She was the closest thing to a 'dragon-child', and she did know less about the dragons than she'd like. Still, the tyrant was only saying these things to rile her up, and she refused to give it that satisfaction.

  
Alduin seemed to sense this; its red eyes focusing on another, alien part of her. “Qonahmir! Daar los fin sosaal fah vothaarn: du naal joor.”

  
Inside her the red dragon's soul fluttered around at the damning insult, like a bird in a cage and she supposed that was what it was now. The dragon, who for the brief hour it was first resurrected was the thur's right wing, was now abandoned to spend the rest of its days as a voice in a mortal's head. Qonahmir returned to its favorite 'perch', sinking claws into the tip of her spine and hissing like a wet cat.

  
Alduin chuckled and peered down at the white dragon. “Vuljotnaak, krii daar joorre.”

  
Irowe stepped back into a fighting stance, noting a shadow to her right.

  
“Geh, thuri.” Vuljotnaak answered as Alduin lifted into the air, leaving the white dragon to do its bidding. Delphine edged off to the right, keeping the stone arches between her and the dragon. Vuljotnaak kept watch on her but focused on Irowe, stalking forward out of the mound.

  
“Viik naal joor, zeymah? _Zok paak!_ ”

  
Qonahmir lost what little composure its soul had left and Irowe didn't bother restraining it. She rushed forward, conjuring axes and smashing them into the dragon's nose, hurling mixed insults in whichever language reached her tongue first. Vuljotnaak roared and leapt into the air, knocking her to the ground.

  
“ _Ven Mul Riik_!” The dragon shouted and the fog closed in. Irowe dispelled the axes and looked around for Delphine but she had disappeared. The frost dragon's call drew her attention to the clouded skies. Vuljotnaak stopped and faced her, hovering in midair.

  
“ _Fo Krah Diin!_ ”

  
Ice spewed from its maw. Irowe hid behind a pillar, but the icy blast caught her right leg and she tripped. The frost magic crept up past her knee-

  
She poured flame onto it until her joints were free, though a roar and human curses made her leave the icy boot on her shin. Delphine was huddled under the stone lip of the mound and slid further down the pit as icicles shot out from the ground above. Irowe hobbled on her heavy foot and shot a lightning bolt at the white dragon. Vuljotnaak growled and circled its burial mound to catch the two women from behind.

  
Delphine crawled out of the mound and notched an arrow to her bow. “Damn lizard, _stop moving!_ ”

  
Irowe stomped her leg, cracking the ice. She took out her dagger and pushed it between her trousers and the ice, using a flame spell in her left hand to melt the crack further. The chill was painful and arcing up her leg, she hissed and worked the knife frantically.

  
The sound of wingbeats thrummed the air. Irowe whipped her head around, hearing the hiss of an arrow from her left then the garbled roar of a dragon with a bolt in its mouth on her right. The ice snapped and she pried it off her leg, shaking her wet hands before searching for Vuljotnaak. Another arrow tinking off dragonscales drew the dragon’s attention to her temporary ally.

  
“ _Fus Ro!_ ” Irowe Shouted, unleashing a bolt of lightning from both hands at the same time.

  
Vuljotnaak snarled and flew away, racing up the Druadachs. _Climbing_ , Qonahmir hissed, recalling the move from its days on the wing. The red dragon had used the same attack to nearly kill Irowe at High Hrothgar, knocking her down from the rush of air and weight of its body.

  
“Get behind something!” Irowe yelled to Delphine, running down the stone path and arches to lure the frost dragon away. She needed that woman alive. Delphine sprinted to the relative safety of one of the northern arches, readying her bow for another shot. A white streak dropped out of the sky.

  
“ _Feim!_ ” Irowe Shouted moments before Vuljotnaak impacted the ground at her feet. The earth beneath her trembled but she remained standing. She heard a cry behind her as the innkeeper-turned-dragonslayer fell into the burial mound. The dragon roared, surging past her. Toward Delphine.

  
Irowe conjured a sword and buried it to the hilt in the dragon's flesh, its momentum throwing her forward as it screamed in pain, kicking its wounded leg at the ground. Delphine scrambled out of the stone pit and through one of the arches. Vuljotnaak shook its head and growled, staring the Breton down with hungry black eyes. It kept its eyes on Delphine, hearing Irowe shout herself ethereal again, swishing its tail.

  
“ _Fus Ro!_ ” Irowe shouted. Not at Vuljotnaak; at the standing stones its head was beneath. The megalithic slab ground against its pillars and slid off its posts, onto the dragon's neck with a thunderous crack. Vuljotnaak screamed.

  
“ _Fus Ro!_ ” Irowe shouted again, pushing the two pillars against the pinned dragon.

  
Vuljotnaak howled as its struggles made the heavy slab fall further onto its broken neck. Delphine drew a long saber and thrust it into the nearest crack in the scales, sawing down until the black blood gushed onto the ground. She brought it down from the top of Vuljotnaak's neck and pushed through scale and muscle and bone. The dragon's body shuddered and its throat rattled one last attempt to shout, then stilled.

  
Vuljotnaak's flesh melted and the fog grew brighter, glowing golden. The lights swirled past the gaping Breton, twisting and circling into Irowe. Irowe stumbled back and planted her foot on a stone as the two dragon souls quickly settled the pecking order. Qonahmir was at the top, a rumbling hiss just beneath her lobes; Vuljotnaak was a whisper, barely audible above the beat of her heart.

  
“So... it is true...” Delphine murmured.

  
Irowe ignored her, walking to the mountain pass south of them where the horse had sought shelter. A glint in the moonlight caught her eye. The sword Delphine had killed Vuljotnaak with was wedged between vertebrae. She walked toward it, frowning. The hilt looked familiar: a long square rectangle with crisscrossing leather above an oval handguard. And the long heavy steel blade honed to a razor's edge, made for tasting blood with its first breath from the sheath.

  
“Qorwen.” Irowe blurted in shock as the memories flooded back. That was where she'd seen that sword before, or one near enough to be its twin.

  
Years ago, when she was just a naïve girl desperate for Ata’s attention, she... Irowe admitted she fell for a stranger from the mainland. She loved him: she wanted to marry him and couldn’t understand why he never asked. She was just a pawn to him, a means to get close to Ata and his people at the Treasury. That was his mission, after all, and if her heart was broken by the end of it he didn’t care.

  
He’d tried to kill Ata, but they stopped him. He died for it.

  
She was disowned for it.

  
At the time she was devastated. She admired her father; she’d pursued the path of an inquisitor to please him even when it killed her inside. She was sent to the mainland, to the Cyrodiil front as her brother’s personal servant, so the family could continue to keep an eye on her. Her life was a waking nightmare for five years; it only stopped when Ornacar died.

  
But... if she hadn’t been banished to the mainland, she never would have met Amuril. Or had Melucar. She was, at least now, free (or mostly free) from her family, and that was a blessing. It still ached to think of how she’d been used, but she was a dragon now. She was no one’s pawn.

  
Delphine handled a scale, examining the skeleton of their kill before checking the skies. “Well, now we know how they’re coming back. The real question is why.”

  
The scale in her pack, she walked over to Irowe. Her steps slowing as she saw the sword and Irowe standing in front of it. The wind rustled the grass but neither of them spoke. Irowe turned-

  
She felt the prick of the paralysis poison again, though she hadn't seen the knife. She didn't feel the ground as she crumpled to the dirt and lay there staring up at stars through a break in the clouds.

  
“What- what are you doing-?”

  
“It’s nothing personal, Dragonborn. But you’re Thalmor.” Delphine pulled out a handkerchief and doused it in a pungent purple liquid. “I can’t trust you.”

  
The rag was pressed up against her mouth and nose. Irowe struggled and attempted to Shout but all she could taste was the horrid smell.

  
“I’ll get you back to the inn and give you three the antidote, but I’ll be long gone when you wake up...”

  
Delphine’s words faded. She couldn't make out what she was saying past that, but it was lighthearted though tinged with concern. Trying to hear the words felt like swimming in the marshes. It smelled like baking bread. And fish, that was definitely fish she smelled. Irowe frowned, wondering why she smelled fish in the middle of the tundra...

  
“...Wake up now, love.”

  
Her eyes fluttered open. Amuril smiled and squeezed her shoulder, relief washing over his face as confusion came over hers. The thatched roof of the Nord inn was above them, and she could hear the sound of people eating in the other room. It was cold outside her blankets, but her side, where Amuril was sitting, was warm.

  
“Come on now, love, we can't sleep all day.” His bushy eyebrows rose knowingly. “Even if some of us did stay up all night.”

  
Irowe sat up. Had it all been a dream?

  
_If only it had been..._ Vuljotnaak whispered.

  
“Did you meet your- _Oof!”_

  
Irowe threw off the covers, throwing them over Amuril and hurrying to the wardrobe. He shouted at her and clawed the quilts from his face, complaining about his hair but Irowe wasn't listening. She slammed her fist on the panel's seam, digging her fingers into the slow-moving wood and pushing it into its slot.

  
“Irowe?”

  
She tossed a magelight ball down the stairs and called a ball of candlelight to float behind her head, running down the stairs two, three at a time. Irowe jumped the last four and stood up, hands crackling with fire.

  
The secret room was empty. The furniture bare, even the map on the table was gone. The only evidence someone had been here lately was the melted wax on the candlesticks... and an ancient dragon’s horn resting in the table’s center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Pahlok joor. Hi vomindoraan hin Thu’um, nuz gahrot fin rot ‘Dovah’: Arrogant mortal. You [do not] understand your Voice but steal the word ‘Dragon’
>   * Mindok krif: [I] know fighting
>   * Ruz hi mindoraan nid, Dovahkiir: Then you understand nothing, Dragon-Child 
>   * Qonahmir! Daar los fin sosaal fah vothaarn: du naal joor: Qonahmir! This is the punishment for disobedience: devoured by [a] mortal
>   * Vuljotnaak, krii daar joorre: Vuljotnaak. Kill these mortals
>   * Viik naal joor, zeymah? Zok paak!: Defeated by [a] mortal, brother? Greatest shame!
> 



	11. Dragonborn Discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for dropping off the face of the earth: silly me decided to do a major revision (on top of the rewrite of Delphine's intro I was already doing) during a serious case of writer's block, and school, and work, and... yeah. Whoops! Have some Delphine and Fallon. (This plot arc is wrapping up, so the revision shouldn't affect the next chapter too much *crosses fingers*)

 

 

> _The secret of staying alive is not in running away, but swimming directly at danger. Catches it off-guard._
> 
> _\-- Death of a Wanderer_

* * *

  
SOLITUDE had been the seat of Imperial-favoring High Kings since the Third Era. It was an expansive port overlooking the Karth River, and the old Castle Dour was the obvious choice to garrison for the Legion’s troops in Skyrim. And like a bad stench, the Thalmor followed the Legion wherever they went, not that either of them tolerated each other from what she’d seen. The Thalmor had only a toe’s hold in the city itself - one of Castle Dour’s wings and a tower - and had been shunned to the woods north in the mountains, where the Sea of Ghosts rained down all the hatred the Nords could not. Altmer weren’t known for knowing when to back down, so their Thalmor Justiciars were often seen in the city, harassing the locals and travelers alike.

  
So Solitude would be the last place the Thalmor would look for her.

  
She hoped.

  
Delphine shivered and shook out her coat, wiping her boots on the mat outside the Skeever. The weather hadn't cleared since last night and the coastal climate only made the damp worse, but the sky refused to rain. And it was damn cold. She stepped inside the Skeever and flashed a smile at the man behind the bars, scanning the holiday crowd for the familiar frizzy hair of a certain Bosmer.

  
She’d known Malborn since she was a young Blades recruit: his family hosted her and vouched for her in the Dominion’s Valenwood. His sister was the reason there hadn’t been 11 _4_ heads presented to Emperor Titus, but their village paid the price for saving her. Malborn never told her what happened exactly, but he was a very anxious, wrist-wringing fellow these days, and he’d implied more than once if they knew he was from a Vinedusk village no one would know what happened to him.

  
Why he agreed to help her, she didn’t know. Sharing what amounted to gossip about the Thalmor wasn’t as dangerous as stealing documents from their embassy, but it was risky nonetheless. Malborn was only allowed outside the Embassy with an escort, and only to oversee the supplies that came in. Apparently he had a nose for wine, among other things, and the First Emissary trusted him not to poison the lot of it (which Delphine admittedly tried to do once).

  
Most trips, his escort was more interested in a night on the town than actually guarding him, and that gave the two of them enough time to talk at the inn.

  
The holiday crowd parted and she spotted him. He was sitting in the corner near the oven. Delphine caught his eye and made a show of looking at the oven, taking a warm loaf out to eat.

  
“You can sit down here if you want.”

  
“Thank you.”

  
Delphine took the chair, sitting far enough away that it was obvious they were strangers sharing a table. She pushed a lock of grey hair back behind her ear. Wigs were easy enough to come by and she had near a dozen - this one was brunette with streaks of grey, to match the faded grey plain dress and cloak. She couldn’t help her height, but a little bit of makeup, a wig, a pebble in her shoe to force a limp, and two bundled cloaks round her middle to fake a generous stomach, made her a completely different person.

  
She picked at a hard lump in the bread. The Dragonborn had used illusion magic to cover her face. She had horrible scars, gods only knew how far down it went, and if a dragon’s fire was anything like that frost dragon’s breath, she didn’t doubt the scars came from a dragon. How good was she with that spell? Could she make herself look like someone else entirely? Was the face that looked normal even her real face?

  
Delphine sighed and looked up at Malborn. “Don’t know when I’ll be coming back through again.”

  
“Oh?” Malborn set his spiced wine down, fidgeting and trying not to look too concerned, but the way he was picking at the table and scratching his ear raw he was _very_ concerned. “Why- why’s that?”

  
“Oh, I just- It’s not bad really, I just have a little trouble down in Whiterun and... well, joke’s on them: I’ve already packed up and moved. Just have to see to some business here, then I’m off.”

  
“Well... good luck to you.” Malborn mumbled, offering her a cup of the spiced wine.

  
Delphine took it and watched him. His tone had been... dejected almost. A twinge in her heart made her wonder if she could somehow take him with her: just up and leave, run away.

  
She sighed. He was too visible a servant for his disappearance to go unnoticed. Besides, she had the Dragonborn to deal with.

  
“I met some friends though. Well- ‘friends’...” She shrugged. She didn’t know that she could call the Dragonborn ‘friend’. Talos’ sake, she’d drugged her husband and servant. Just a sleeping draught - thankfully the woman didn’t seem to know the difference between a draught and actual poison, but... her overzealousness hadn’t exactly done her any favors. She was lucky she hadn’t been killed.

  
“They live up the hill: married couple with a servant.” Malborn raised an eyebrow but took another drink of his wine. “Husband’s a mage. Servant’s pretty young. Redhead. The wife though, she has this... very uh,” Delphine gestured to her face. “ _Distinguished_ face. Uses Illusion magic like most women use makeup.”

  
Malborn set his cup down and stared at her. Delphine squirmed in the chair. Gods, she didn’t want to be more detailed than that. There were only so many people with facial scars - let alone horrific burns - in Skyrim. The Dragonborn was probably the only one in the Embassy-

  
“The Malciors?” Malborn asked.

  
Delphine blinked. “You know them?”

  
“ _Everyone_ knows them. Master Amuril-” Malborn glanced around the inn, paying special attention to the door, before leaning in. “They buy us New Life presents.” He mumbled, his face growing red.

  
She fought the grin growing at the edge of her lips, she really did. “Really?”

  
“Oh yes. They do it every year, been what? Eight, nine years now? He even gets the cook moon sugar - don’t ask me how or where he finds it.” Malborn stopped digging in his pocket, bringing out a carved pipe. “I got that last year.”

  
“They buy the servants New Life presents?” Delphine repeated, almost in disbelief. She took the pipe and turned it over: antler, with ‘Malborn’ embossing the bowl and tiny, intricate deer carved around the stem. It was a nice gift. Not particularly expensive but then if you were buying for a couple dozen people, you couldn’t break the bank. It was very personal though, very thoughtful: kind, she decided, especially for people who had little more than the clothes on their backs.

  
On the one hand, she felt a twinge of regret for her actions back in Riverwood. On the other...

  
“What’s someone like _that_ doing in there?”

  
Now Malborn quieted. He took the pipe back and rubbed a thumb over his name. “Rumor says he was caught altering paperwork back in Cyrodiil. Changing names around so prisoners got released early, or on lesser crimes. I’ve heard he never actually arrested anyone down south, just fined them, and even paid some of them with his own coin.”

  
“I bet they didn’t like that.” Delphine said drily.

  
“No, they _didn’t_.” Malborn said, clicking his tongue. He returned the pipe to its case and pocketed it. “He’s here on watch, they’re hoping to sort of brainwash him into being one of them, but if you ask me it’s just made him sneakier.”

  
Already she felt much better about the Dragonborn and her husband. It seemed like a miracle that they were (or at least sounded like) decent people. “Does his wife help?”

  
Malborn closed his mouth. “I don’t think so. She’s...” He bit his lip and frowned at the ceiling. “She acts like one of them, might’ve been raised like that, but... I couldn’t tell you if she’s more like him or more like them, deep down. She’s proper, I know that. Knows all the dances and table manners and titles and everything. She prefers his company though, especially after the uh...” He coughed. “Helgen.”

  
Delphine sat up and pulled her chair closer. “They were at Helgen?”

  
“Herself was _royally_ _pissed_ they caught the Bear.” Malborn whispered. “She left a unit there to make sure he escaped to his den. But then the dragon attacked. Caught her in the street and her ward failed at the last second.” Malborn leaned in, even further than last time. “I heard they killed a dragon on the Riften lake, but the black one from Helgen’s a- a necromancer of some sort and raised it again.”

  
He sat back and swirled his cup. “That can’t be true though. Dragons don’t practice necromancy.” He drank some of it and looked around. Delphine remembered the dragon mound last night, the black dragon, and the white one. She remembered what the Dragonborn had told her, that the black one raised the others. It had to be stopped somehow, if they couldn’t be turned against the Dominion.

  
When Malborn caught her dead eyes again he stopped, stared, then pointed. “And if they _do_ , **don’t** tell me.” He coughed and adjusted his legs so his left was resting on his right knee. “I think your friends are due in in two weeks, if you wanted to chat.”

  
“No, I need to be going.” Delphine stood up. She popped the butt of the loaf in her mouth and brushed crumbs off her clothes. Her cloak was almost dry, but it was only going to get wet again so really, what was the point?

  
“Well, you better stop in again sometime soon. They’ll be going back home before summer.”

  
Delphine stopped, cursed the mouthful of bread, and crammed most of it into her cheeks so she could talk. “Why?”

  
Malborn blinked. “Well, he’s only here ten years. Him and the wife keep saying they’re retiring just as soon as they can. Can’t blame them, with the little one back home.”

  
Delphine gagged on the bread. She was thankful really: the only reason she hadn’t yelled and drawn the whole inn’s attention was because she couldn’t breathe. She pounded her chest and coughed, reaching for the cup of wine to wet her throat, make it easier to swallow. When the bread finally went down she cleared her throat.

  
“They have a child?” She rasped.

  
“A... son, in the Isles. -Are you _alright_?” He stood to help her-

  
“I’m fine.” Delphine waved him off. Malborn rolled his eyes and sat back down. Delphine cleared her throat again. It was more than a little raw. “I guess I’ll be coming back to see them. Wish them well.”

  
She rested her hands on the back of her chair. A son. The Dragonborn had a son, and since she was his mother he had to be Dragonborn as well. Two dragonborn, and her husband by Malborn’s account was a good person: whoever the god of luck was, they were smiling on her. This wasn’t as bad as it could be. It was still bad- they were still Thalmor, even if in name only, and there was a child Dragonborn in the heart of the Dominion, but it wasn’t hopeless.

  
“How old is the boy...?” She rasped.

  
“’95, Rain’s Hand. They always take the month off and go home to see him.”

  
Delphine nodded. Six then. Almost seven. That was... She bowed her head a little deeper in Malborn’s direction and headed for the door. Given how crowded this inn was, even thrice the size of Riverwood, it would take a few minutes.

  
“Be safe out there.” Malborn called after her. She turned and he shrugged. “You know: from the dragons.”

  
“Yeah. Dragons...” Delphine muttered. She walked out the door and headed for the carriages. She’d take one as east as the driver felt safe, and from there set out for Riften. Hopefully Sigrid was still alive, the old rascal, and she’d know a few places to lie low once the Thalmor really started looking for her.

  
Delphine passed under the gates when the whole crowd stopped. A dragon roared somewhere in the distance. The majority of them turned and hurried for the nearest door. Delphine kept walking, even if her legs were shaking. It was too echoy, too far away to be a real threat. The roar came again, about the same distance. If she stared she could almost see a shape wheeling above the fog in Hjaalmarch. It was defending its territory, not attacking. So long as it wasn’t near the road, she should be safe to travel.

  
Only slightly comforted by that fact, she continued down the hill to the stables, but the dragon’s roars made her gut churn. How in Oblivion were they going to stop these things, let alone a dragon necromancer?

* * *

 

Firewood cracked as the wood settled underneath the cooking pot. Fallon pulled his hood closer and kept stirring, wishing the water would boil already. He glanced over at the large fur tent, somehow too small for eleven Altmer and their inflated egos. The senior justiciar for Whiterun Hold, Sornalyon this week, called an emergency meeting that afternoon, but it took until the moons rose to get everyone together. It was snowing lightly, as it had all evening, and it was damn cold.

  
Beiros walked over to the fire and warmed his hands, waving snowflakes away from the pot. “How- how much longer until it’s ready? Mistress Siianwe doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  
“It’ll boil when it boils. If she wants it done faster, she can come out and use magic to make it boil herself...” Fallon muttered in Bosmeris. He put the cover back over the water, ignoring Beiros’ slackjawed expression.

  
“You-you shouldn’t talk like that.”

  
“I’m sorry.” Fallon sighed. “If she wants it done faster, she can come out and use magic to make it boil herself.” He said, in the eager-to-serve tone of voice that Altmer demanded. Beiros shut his mouth, but continued the disapproving look. Fallon rolled his eyes.

  
“You’re going to get in trouble one day, doing that.”

  
Fallon scoffed. “Yeah, I’ve never heard _that_ before...” Beiros started to yell at him, another lecture on the best ways to avoid pissing off Altmer- “Get me the tea, will you?”

  
Beiros huffed and dug in their packs for a bag of tea leaves. It wasn’t that Fallon needed a lecture - he’d been a servant almost fifteen years - he was just sick of the other servants wringing their hands that he rocked the boat a little much for their liking. What exactly was he supposed to do though, when the Malciors were... well, the Malciors? Irowe had driven away all of her ‘friends’ (or people she willingly interacted with) and Amuril secretly gave all the servants _New Life presents_. Even by - or especially by - Altmer standards, they were an odd couple.

  
“Here.”

  
Beiros handed him a pouch of crushed frost mirriam. Fallon took a handful and put it in, setting it on one of the fire circle’s stones and prepared the other, smaller pots.

  
“What are you doing?” Beiros asked, standing over him.

  
“Making Master Malcior’s coffee... And his wife’s spiced tea.” Fallon wiped the tops and set the lids on them. He had to watch the coffee carefully, to make sure it frothed but didn’t boil.

  
Beiros fidgeted, watching over his shoulder. The mer finally cleared his throat. “Could you make one more, for Mistress Siianwe?”

  
“No.” Fallon said flatly. “She’d hate it.”

  
“She’s been hounding me for something new for the past week-”

  
“ _This_ is barely drinkable.” Fallon said, pointing to Irowe’s tea pot with his foot. “It’s like- like tea rotmeth. Don’t ask me how she doesn’t choke. And Master Malcior’s the only Altmer I know that drinks coffee.”

  
Irowe’s drinks had gotten... stranger of late. She used to prefer straight tea, maybe a little cordial at night. Now she was two steps away from eating spices whole with a mouthful of water. He wondered if it had anything to do with the dragon business. Fallon had started putting more honey in her drinks, to help with the sore throats she must suffer from after Shouting. She barely noticed: it was always more spices.

  
Fallon frowned. He had bought an extra jar of honey from the old Khajiit outside Whiterun, from the Black-Briar’s private apiary. Irowe hated it, Amuril thought it was too strong, and he was at a loss for what to cook with it besides candied jerky for himself. Maybe Beiros could use it.

  
“Here, try this.” Fallon tossed him the jar of honey. “They don’t care for it, she might.”

  
Beiros turned it over, noting the flowering mug on the label. “What’s wrong with it?”

  
“They’re used to Falkreath honey: Black-Briar’s more than a little tart and throws the flavors off.”

  
“Well, if they hate it, chances are she’ll like it.” Beiros shrugged.

  
Fallon nodded, setting out the sugar bowl and a plate of biscuits on Beiros’ serving tray. He was grateful he didn’t have to carry around all that extra useless gear. The Malciors were practical people (well, for Altmer) and only cared that their dishes were clean and wouldn’t spill on their robes. They didn’t need seashell teacups or ornate serving trays or other things that had no place being outdoors.

  
He poured Amuril and Irowe’s drinks, and Beiros poured the rest, putting a generous spoonful in a rosy shell cup for Siianwe. Fallon, only carrying two drinks, held the tent flap open for Beiros, and stood back while he passed his tray to the bad-tempered Altmer.

  
One mer snatched a cup off the tray, nearly scalding his trousers with tea. “Charming as this frozen wasteland is, I pray there is a _reason_ we’re out here and not at the Mare as usual?” He snapped.

  
Another one with a blond braid trailing down his shoulder groaned. “The Redguard won’t sleep with you, Gyrliron. She’s not a whore.”

  
A few chuckles rippled around the mer at Gyrliron’s expense and he frowned. “I know you speak from experience, but we all know _why_ she refuses _you_.”

  
“-Oh, go outside and drop your trousers and get it over with!” Irowe spat. “I would like to _sleep_ before sunrise so can we start this meeting already?”

  
The other Altmer stared at her. Two of them coughed. Beiros, his tray now conveniently empty, scurried out back to the safety of the cooking fire. Amuril looked like he wanted to die- to just die and drop through the ground to... wherever Altmer go when they die. Fallon bit his lip and walked around the edge of the tent to the Malciors. He hid a smirk and handed them their drinks: Amuril gratefully hid his face behind the mug.

  
“Certainly.” The blond smiled. “I’m sure that redhead of yours will be very interested in the results.”

  
Amuril bristled. “That’s enough, Voronath!”

  
Fallon held the tray to his chest and dug his fingernails into the wood. Sornalyon tapped his spoon against his cup until they all fell silent. He sighed and held the cup to his mouth.

  
“If we’re done behaving like children? This is rather important...” Sornalyon sighed.

  
He held his fingers up palm-down and green tendrils glowed underneath it. A folded envelope slid out of his pocket and hovered in the air - an extreme form of laziness unique to Altmer. It unfolded and floated closer so Sornalyon could read the print. “It comes direct from Emissary Iachesar...”

  
Fallon crept out of the tent, walking faster when he noticed Voronath’s eyes on him. The slam of chilling air was a relief, and he left the Altmer to their boring, horrid meeting. His gaze fell on his own small tent and the Malcior’s larger one. They would be staying the night here, with the others, ‘for safety’. He started shaking, not just from the cold.

 _  
“_ _Be on the lookout for ... the remains of dragons ... other evidence of the Dragonborn._ ”

  
Fallon froze. He glanced over to Beiros, who was drying the wooden dishes and utensils. The wash pot was not quite boiling, and there were enough dishes to keep the younger servant busy for a few minutes.

  
“I need to water a tree. Keep cleaning.”

  
Beiros bobbed his head up and down and picked up another plate to dry. Fallon walked past the tent into the woods, doubling back to the far side of the tent once he was out of sight. He tucked his hair back and crouched with his ear to the furs.

  
“ _If you encounter him your orders are to capture him or at minimum gather information. Under no circumstances are you to kill him._ ”

  
Fallon swallowed. The Thalmor never wanted targets alive: they didn’t care about the ‘lesser races’. What did they want Irowe alive for? To use her? Torture her? _Would_ they, if they found out who the Dragonborn really was?

  
The Malciors were... _tolerated_ by the other Altmer at the Embassy, but Amuril was more ‘friends’ with the cooking staff and the hostler than any of his peers. Irowe never bothered making friends before Helgen, and had actively driven away any acquaintances after the incident. The Malciors did all the right lip-service to keep the other Altmer from looking too closely, and Irowe especially played the part of irritated noble stuck in the backwaters of nowhere (a little too well). Regardless of anything that happened, they would be gone by Rain’s Hand when the pair officially retired to raise Melucar.

 _  
“_ _... be advised, the Dragonborn is believed to be a Blades Agent and is capable of killing dragons._ "

  
A Blade? The Blades were involved? Fallon frowned. Why did the Thalmor think the Dragonborn was a Blade? Were the Blades looking for Irowe?

  
“ _Precautions should be taken to prevent him from Shouting, if he is capable of doing so. If you are caught by the local authorities, we are unable to offer you any assistance. For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion._ ”

 _  
‘For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion’_ was the others’ lackluster response. Fallon bit his lip and started crawling away to return to Beiros.

  
“Do they honestly expect us to go frolicking around the countryside _looking_ for dragons?” The speaker had a lilting voice. Siianwe then.

  
“Only if you have reason to believe it should be investigated.”

  
She scoffed. “I’ll never have reason because _I value my life_. If the inquisitors want to find this information have the cats or woodsrats do it for them. It’s what they’re bred to do.”

  
“Oh come on now, you make it seem like they’re invulnerable. _Irowe_ killed one.”

  
Fallon froze and tensed, no doubt mirroring Amuril and Irowe’s own movements inside. Would one of them put it together? Irowe had killed the one at High Hrothgar and another one last Middas, both picked clean and left near well-traveled roads. Fallon reached for his hunting knife, waiting for the sound of magicka crackling.

  
“With a great deal of luck and all of our magicka.” Irowe answered sullenly. “We could just as easily been roasted alive; don’t make it sound like they’re a _skeever infestation_.”

  
One of the mer laughed. “Just because _you_ are afraid of flying Argonians doesn’t mean the rest of us should shake in our boots.”

  
“I’m not afraid of them-!”

  
“When you’ve fought one, Gyrliron, then tell me you’re not afraid.” Amuril’s soft voice cut above Irowe’s. Fallon heard the shuffling of clothes as someone stood up. “We’re done here.”

  
Fallon sprang to his feet and hurried back to the cooking area. While Amuril and Irowe sometimes shared what went on in meetings - usually by loudly complaining about it to each other - he didn’t think they would approve of eavesdropping. Even if it was the Thalmor, and about the dragons. Fallon dusted his legs and made a show of helping Beiros with the dishes. He barely reached the cooking fire when Irowe stormed out, Amuril on her heels.

  
“Fallon. Are you packed?”

  
“I- what?”

  
Irowe stomped over to her tent. “We’re leaving before I ‘kill something’. As usual.” She muttered through grit teeth.

  
Fallon glanced down at the dishes, at his cooking gear, at the two tents that were ready to be slept in. They were-?

  
“One moment!”

  
He grabbed all his pans and utensils, stacking them and shoving them in his pack. The Malciors took down their tent, and he hurriedly broke his down. It was rolled up and on his pack before they finished with theirs. He just needed-

  
His hand brushed the honey jar and Fallon stopped. He pulled it out and checked it was still full, then hurried over to Beiros and pressed it into his hand.

  
“Here. It’s Black-Briar honey. Use it for yourself or that-” He stopped himself. He should only talk like that when he was alone with the Malciors.

  
“Her?” Beiros offered, smiling knowingly. Fallon nodded. “Thank you.” He whispered, squirreling it away in his own pack-

  
“ _Beiros!_ ”

  
They both flinched. “Coming, mistress!”

  
Fallon carried the pack over to the Malcior’s tent and hooked it on top of his, cinching it down tight. Amuril grabbed his cup and continued drinking it and they set off for the road. Where exactly they were going, he didn’t know, but he didn’t frankly care. He hated being around other Altmer.

  
The snow fell heavier on the open road but it was still a half-hearted smattering of flakes. This late in the night, they really did need to find someplace to camp soon. Especially if the weather worsened.

  
“How do they know?” Amuril asked quietly.

  
Fallon glanced between them.  
Irowe huffed and crossed her arms, digging her fingers into her cloak’s sleeves. “She must have left the sword at the kill. It was a Blades sword-”

  
“Katana.” Amuril corrected. “It’s Akaviri for-”

  
“I don’t care. At least they think she’s a man, and I don’t think she’ll go off to hunt dragons on her own so I doubt they’ll find her. She’s right about one thing though: we need to figure out what these dragons are up to.”

  
Fallon kept his mouth shut. He was very much in favor of avoiding the dragons or whatever they were ‘up to’, but he didn’t make the decisions.

  
Amuril frowned and stopped to face her. “You’ve killed two: I thought they spoke to you. Can’t they tell you?”

  
Irowe put her hands on her hips, gesturing to her head as she talked. “Qonahmir didn’t stay in Alduin’s council long, and Vuljotnaak still had _dirt_ on it when it died.” She rolled her eyes and continued walking west. “I know they aren’t up to anything good, and it involves razing the countryside, but aside from that, your guess is as good as mine.”

  
She blinked at the horizon, scanning the mountaintops. Fallon tensed, worrying that she sensed an attack coming. A dragon attack in the dark, in the snow, would be terrible. They couldn’t even run for the trees, and the other Justiciars would find out. They might even help.

  
“Our best bet would be to kill a dragon that’s been around for more than five minutes. One that’s been to one of Alduin’s meetings, though I’m sure that those are just as boring as Sornalyon’s.”

  
“ _No_. It’s too dangerous to go around killing dragons.”

  
“But what if-”

  
“Irowe.” Amuril snapped. “They’re looking for _any_ dead dragons. I don’t know what excuse you’re trying to say but it stays in your mouth. It can wait until Rain’s Hand.”

  
They walked in silence for several minutes. Fallon didn’t mind: it gave him time to think. He spotted the small Nordic ruin near the Tri-Hold fork, and the snow-covered carcass of the dragon Irowe killed last week. Already it had been picked nearly clean by scavengers. Fallon bit his lip: Irowe said something about a sword...

  
“You said something about a blade?”

  
Irowe groaned. Amuril shot her a tired glare before rubbing his eyes and turning to Fallon.

  
“A Blades Agent. The innkeeper, in Riverwood. The Blades were an intelligence organization for the Third and Second Empires, somewhat like the Thalmor but generally decent people-”

  
“I- I know who the Blades were.” Fallon said, trying to stem that tide of useless trivia.

  
He didn’t want to elaborate exactly _how_ he knew them - and the horrible, terrible things Salada had said in the main halls of Cloud Ruler while drinking all their wine - but he did know them. Amuril, for once, looked glad he didn’t have to talk about some random fact and continued walking.

  
“So what are we doing about the dragons? In Rain’s Hand?” Fallon added hastily.

  
“Well, first we’re going to Summerset and getting Melucar.” Amuril muttered. “I still say we should head for Wayrest or Balfiera, try the Direnni perhaps.”

  
“ _Dragons_ , Amuril.” Irowe grumped.

  
“I haven’t forgotten, Irowe, but Melucar comes first.” Amuril snarked back. “If you’re somehow discovered the last thing we want is the Thalmor _kidnapping him_.” He dropped his hood and scarf, brushed hair from his face, and pulled his hood back up. “And somewhere in there, we’re taking you back to Valenwood.” Amuril sighed, patting Fallon’s shoulder.

  
Fallon’s stomach fluttered. He hadn’t forgotten that either, but he just assumed - with the dragons - that... well, it’d been delayed. Amuril promised a long time ago, back when he was still getting to know the couple, that they would take him back to Valenwood where he would ‘accidentally disappear’, Irowe’s father and legal action be damned.

  
He hadn’t believed them at first but after years of hearing it he actually believed it would happen this next summer. He just had to survive the dragons, the civil war, the Thalmor, and the weather, and then he would be back home...

  
Fallon blinked snow from his lashes. Was that the right thing to do though? Irowe was Dragonborn. They were going to fight dragons. They did _need_ help, whether they admitted it to anyone - or themselves - or not. And he had a sinking suspicious that Salada would come back from whatever had finally killed him and beat him black and blue if he found out he’d failed to protect a dragonborn.

  
“I could come with you. Until you dealt with the- the dragons.” He offered, his voice shaking.

  
“Fallon-”

  
“I- I can help. I can help fight or at least distract it. I can still help you with cooking and stuff-”

  
Amuril stopped and put his hands on Fallon’s shoulders. “Fallon, I’m not _refusing_ to take you with us, I’m just saying that... you should think about your answer before saying yes.” He shook his head. “It would probably be better for all of us if you stayed with Melucar, somewhere out of the way.”

  
Irowe groaned, more at her ‘killing dragons’ time was being pushed back than anything else. Fallon swallowed. He wasn’t that happy about children - much less babysitting - but... It probably would ease their worries, and it be a lot more useful than plinking away trying to annoy a dragon.

  
Fallon nodded. “Whatever you need. You’ve done so much for me, it’s the least I can do. I don’t think I’d be much help against dragons - or in another ruin against Shouting dead Nords, but...” He glanced down at the ground and adjusted his pack. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do.”

  
“It’s not a firm decision, but we’ll discuss it later. In Rain’s Hand.” Amuril agreed. Irowe stomped ahead, finally veering off into the woods near the fork. Amuril sighed and raised an eyebrow. “And speaking of babysitting, I believe _someone_ needs a nap...”

  
“ _I heard that!_ ”

  
“Of course you did...” Amuril muttered.

  
Fallon shook his head and followed the two Altmer, praying to Y’ffre that they actually _lived_ to see Rain’s Hand and have that discussion later...


	12. A Better Mousetrap

> _Visitors from Cheydinhal will pass through Riften, city of intrigue and larceny since Tiber Septim's day._

* * *

  
LUCK ran out for Sigrid six years ago. The faces in the Riften Thieves Guild had changed so many times over the last ten years, no one was left to vouch for Delphine when she arrived. She was just thankful her ‘mentor’ in the Guild believed she ‘accidentally lost’ the ring down a hole in the marketplace. She was also thankful no one noticed she slipped it into the Argonian’s pocket.

  
The Thieves Guild was well known to her - she met the Blades through the Cyrodiil Thieves Guild - but the Guild she knew had _standards_. Don’t steal from the poor, no strong-arming tactics - they were something out of a fairy tale and that was the guild Delphine had grown up knowing. The Guild in Riften wasn’t the group that snuck her into Skyrim via a carriage’s hidden compartment. It wasn’t even a shadow of its former self, or its southern cousin, but then Cyrodiil was the only guild that could claim to have a living legend at its helm.

  
The Riften guildhall had seen better days as well. There were days Vekel (the only ‘staff’ the pub could claim) had trouble keeping the _rats_ out of the Ratway. The labyrinthine sewers and Maven Black-Briar’s not-so-silent protection was the only reason the guards didn’t come poking around. Still, she was willing to do odd jobs as long as they were in town, and nothing that entailed leaving the brick tunnels during the day when Thalmor agents might be watching.

  
There were tougher jobs that needed doing - mostly strong-arming for Maven - but the last thing she wanted to do was attract attention. She was just an old Breton woman with sticky fingers and enough knife skills to cut her way out of a job gone wrong. A midnight black Khajiit - Sarabi or Sabina, something - was quiet but ambitious enough to try her luck at that.

  
Delphine returned to the Cistern, the deplorable and soggy ‘guildhall’, with just enough pocketed coins to make ends meet for the week. She left the guild’s cut in the Guildmaster’s chest, and her eye caught the bust of the Grey Fox sitting on a bookshelf, the only nice thing the Guild had to its name. For all his talk of admiration, Mercer didn’t seem too keen on actually following the Grey Fox’s example.

  
She retreated to ‘her’ bunk. The more-seasoned thieves quieted as she passed, and kept it to a hushed whisper as she started taking her gear off. Delphine ignored them: they didn’t respond to anything but coin, but she couldn’t blame them. They'd seen and forgotten enough new faces that disappeared in a month to distrust anyone new. She hoped she wouldn’t be here that long.

  
The dragons had to be dealt with, and soon, but she had no idea where to even start. She had vague ideas of going to all the lairs around Skyrim and just wiping them out, hopefully faster than the necromancer could raise them, but that wasn’t a plan. If she’d had an active Sanctuary, even another Blade to talk it over with, maybe she’d have something by now.

  
As it was, all she had were ideas. Maybe get a team together to do the wiping out bit, and have the Dragonborn kill the black dragon when it showed up next. And after that...

  
Delphine shook her head. Now was not the time to start daydreaming about a Dragonborn Emperor on the Ruby Throne. Especially not one as short-sighted as the woman she’d met in Riverwood. Besides, the races of men would never willingly put an _elf_ on the Ruby Throne, and this Dragonborn seemed more likely to destroy the Empire than save it. If she could be bothered to get off her ass and save it from the dragons first-

  
The secret door to the Ragged Flagon slammed shut, breaking her train of thought.

  
“Did any of you break into the Thalmor Embassy lately?” Mercer bellowed angrily.

  
The chatter in the Cistern died down as the various thieves looked at each other and hastily voiced their innocence. One young Nord with a bundle of staves under his arm grew white as a sheet. Delphine shook her head.

  
“No. Why?” Some poor Bosmer asked.

  
“Because Niruin... _They're poking their pointy-ears around in my Ratway!_ Why do you think?!”

  
Delphine looked over at her bed and the trunk where her weapons were stored. She could figure out how they'd tracked her down later. There was an escape route from this cistern to the graveyard in the city proper. If she was lucky she could get out before she became a permanent resident.

  
“It's alright, Mercer, they're not looking for us. It's some old man in the warrens.” Said one of the older members. The sleazy fish from the market: Brynjolf.

  
Well, that was a bit unkind. He was the only one of them reliably bringing in money and recruits, and some days he was the only one actively _trying_ to dig the guild out from whatever hole they’d found themselves in. She distrusted him because he had this voice that could sell birds their own eggs back, and he wasn’t very particular in how he used it so long as no one died.

  
That said, he was the only one who would willingly talk to her, and he did seem to know more about the Thalmor’s presence in the Ratway. Mercer harrumphed and sat down at his desk, dusting off his ledger before settling down to run figures.

  
Delphine eased next to Brynjolf, drawing him away from the desk. “Why?”

  
“-It doesn't matter, it’s none of your business.” Mercer snapped, any hint of a good mood vanishing. He straightened his back and glared at them from behind the stacks of papers. “Nobody do anything stupid. You lot stay clear of them, you hear that? You end up with an elven arrow in your back, the rest of us get your loot.” A few nods. “Right, as you were.”

  
The thieves needed no prompting, though the conversations were hushed and the corner nearest Mercer's desk was vacated.

  
Brynjolf exhaled and shrugged. “Sorry, lass.” Then he winked at her.

  
Delphine raised an eyebrow and watched him go into the training room. She followed, throwing a glance back at the foul-tempered Guildmaster before sliding the door shut. Brynjolf looked over at her but fished out a handful of lockpicks, determined to break into the master-locked chest and the meager trophies inside. Delphine sat cross-legged on a nearby trunk and picked at her armor.

  
“You were saying, lass?”

  
“Why are they looking for someone in the Warrens?”

  
Brynjolf sighed and ran his fingers through greasy hair. “You're _not_ going to go behind Mercer's back and try to rescue him, and you _didn't_ hear this from me.”

  
She blinked. The way he said it, she almost thought he was saying it just to cover his ass. One look in his eyes said he was serious.

  
Delphine snorted. “Brynjolf, they're _Thalmor_. I'd probably... kill _one_ before I got zapped to death.” She brushed dirt off her knees. He seemed to buy it.

  
“They said his name was Esbern. He's been in the Warrens for...” He shook his head. “As long as _I_ can remember. I can't imagine what he did to piss them off, ’less he's got some sort of Talos shrine behind all those locks in his bunker.”

  
Delphine didn't mention the Talos statue within walking distance of the Hall of the Dead aboveground, or that it'd take more than a personal Talos shrine to get their attention. Especially if this Esbern lived in the Ratways: there were richer, easier to get to people in the city proper.

  
“Maybe he found something on the dragons- I don't _know_.” Brynjolf huffed, his line of thought broken by the snap of a lockpick. He threw the pieces on the stone floor and started again, gingerly prodding the master-lock.

  
“What does an old man in the Ratways have to do with those things?” Delphine frowned.

  
“Well he's been asking a lot of questions about them. Sightings, any kills, that sort of thing. Really interested in news of any black ones.”

  
Her ears perked up. Whoever this Esbern was, if the Thalmor wanted him she wanted him _first_. Someone who actually knew about dragons was exactly what she needed right now, she couldn’t believe her luck. The only other person she knew who knew anything about dragons was...

  
Her eyes unfocused. There was an eccentric older Nord at Cloud Ruler, who was downright _obsessed_ in dragonlore. She couldn’t remember his name, but she could hear his voice. She’d know it was him if she heard him talk, and if this was the Nord she remembered getting him to shut up was like trying to dam the Niben.

  
“Can I ask you a favor?” She inquired after another lockpick snapped.

  
“Gyna-”

  
“You can have half my gold.” He closed his mouth. Money did talk, and she hoped it bought her a little loyalty as well. “Can you pack up my things for me?”

  
Brynjolf stopped toying with the chest and crossed his arms. “Where are you going?”

  
“Just pack. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

  
Brynjolf stood up, blocking the door. For a moment she worried she'd have to offer the rest of her gold just to get him to budge. The redheaded Nord sighed and shook his head, but walked out of the training room to do as she'd asked.

  
When he was gone Delphine hopped off the trunk and shut the door behind him. A brief look around confirmed she was the only one in the room before she walked over to a long chest buried in the corner. She pushed the crates and trunks off of it then took the Talos amulet from around her neck, running a thumb over the carved hammer. On the same chain were two rings with Altmeris inscriptions, and a key.

  
She exhaled and put the key in, opening the chest: inside, a Blade’s katana. She’d lost hers in the fight, but while this was balanced for a woman a head taller, she’d trained herself to use it almost as well. Delphine stroked the hilt wistfully, the rings on her amulet hanging down and catching a forgotten strand of sunlight.

  
Delphine felt her throat tightening and wiped her face, taking the sword out and tying it to her belt. Time to go hunting...

  
Brynjolf was folding the spare guild armor left in her drawer. Delphine picked through her chest at the foot of the bed, stringing the hunting bow inside and taking out a quiver of steel arrows, placing a few potions in a satchel on her hip. Brynjolf eyed her but said nothing.

  
“Thanks. Just put it in a knapsack or something easy to carry.”

  
“Lass-”

  
Delphine plucked a bulging coin purse from behind the endtable drawer and placed it in his hands. The Nord froze and looked down at the size of the thing, grabbing the bag’s mouth with his other hand to keep it from spilling.

  
“That's yours.”

  
He swallowed and peeked over his shoulder at Mercer, who was still buried in paperwork. Delphine patted him on the back and walked through the door to the pub.

  
She looked around for Thalmor agents before shutting the secret wardrobe entrance. The door to the Ratway's vaults lay outside the Flagon’s small bedroom, and she exhaled out her nose to chase the jitters in her limbs away. A nervous grin grew across her face. She’d missed this.

  
Delphine slipped into the dank corridor and kept to the shadows, keeping her ears peeled for anything other than the drip of sewage. She stopped and pressed herself into an alcove. Someone was talking in Altmeris up ahead, and she didn’t need three guesses to figure out who they were.

  
“... Brelenya, obviously this is the wrong man, he's too young.” A mer’s voice chastised.

  
“A good spy can change their face...”

  
One look around the tunnel's corner revealed two Thalmor agents, a wizard and a warrior, in the 'room' across a stone walkway. The warrior was holding a Nord beggar by the throat, his legs kicking uselessly just a few inches off the ground. The wizard flicked her wrist and the kicking stopped, a spike of frost magic piercing the man's chest.

  
“Odd. I thought they were used to the cold.” The wizard laughed. She choked and fell forward, an arrow in her back.

  
The warrior yelled and conjured a bound sword before charging down the walkway at the Blade agent. His head snapped back and he collapsed on the ground, an arrow in his throat and another between his eyes. Delphine rushed over to the wizard and rolled her over. Dark yellow eyes stared at her in disbelief. The Blade threw back the Altmer's hood. Blonde. Not the Dragonborn.

  
Delphine stabbed the Thalmor witch in the neck. She knelt over the dead beggar and closed his eyes, waving her amulet over the body. With luck the man would make it to Shor's Hall in Sovngarde, and find a better life than the one he'd lost here.

  
“ _Brelenya!_ ” A mer's voice echoed up the corridors.

  
Delphine sprinted back to the walkway and nocked an arrow, staring down at the various bridges and ledges below. Another Altmer, this time in Elven armor sneered up at her, stepping back to cast a destruction spell. Delphine fired an arrow at him. She missed. She rolled to the right back toward the Ratway's entrance as a fireball engulfed the stones where she'd been standing.

  
“I'll make you wish you hadn't meddled in our affairs, thief!” The Altmer snarled, backpedaling to get a better shot.

  
Delphine shook her head and gripped the bow with her left hand. The next firebolt was too close- she lost her footing and jumped for the walkway below, stringing another arrow and missing again.

  
“Stand _still_ , damn you!” She hissed.

  
Thankfully, the Thalmor soldier's flame spell also missed. He just kept dodging- Delphine jumped down the platforms and walkways, tired of wasting arrows and wanting to hit _something_ with her sword. The mer stepped back and called on all his magicka, enough to disintegrate her. She leapt down to his level and rolled, drawing the katana as the balls of her feet touched the wet stones. The magicka bled out in a weak wave as his headless body crumpled to the floor.

  
Delphine glanced around, unsure where she was now: she’d never been this far down in the Ratways. However, if the warrens - where Esbern was at - were _behind_ her, the Thalmor wouldn't have come this far down. Pressing forward, she found a large oak door blocking a corridor. She grabbed the handle and jiggled it, throwing her shoulder into the thick wood when it didn't budge.

  
The door opened with a heavy creak, revealing a large opening in the tunnels with dozens of alcoves and dead ends just beyond a wall of rails. Faint rays of sunlight, searing in the gloom, fell down from a drain in the streets above.

  
She could hear the scuffling of calloused feet and rags as she opened a gate in the rails. The Ratway's residents had fallen back to their individual nests to hide from the Thalmor. She didn’t envy their chances, given the disrespect they’d shown for the beggar upstairs.

  
Delphine spotted a barred door with metal lining the jam on the second level opposite her. Brynjolf mentioned locks, and it was the only one sporting serious security. She sprinted up a ramp and ran over to it, banging on the door until - thank gods - the thin grate at eye height slid back.

  
“Go away!” A voice shouted at her. It was an old man, balding, with a large nose. She’d forgotten his face, but not his voice.

  
“Esbern-”

  
The man scowled and shut the grate- but not before Delphine shoved her hilt in the slot jamming it open. He glared back at her. “Go away or I'll hurt you.”

  
“There's Thalmor in the tunnels. We need to get you out.” She said, checking the Warrens for any sign of them. He scoffed.

  
“And I suppose you're just a concerned citizen, no affiliation with those monsters.” He sneered back at her. His voice was farther away, like he'd stepped back from the door. Delphine slammed the sword to the right, opening the grate all the way.

  
“I was with you on the Thirtieth of Frostfall.” Inside by a brazier she saw him stop.

  
She remembered. Grandmaster Jerauld called all the agents in Cloud Ruler’s main hall, delivered the news that the Dominion - the Thalmor - had murdered all their agents south of the Strid. As if that wasn’t enough, they’d delivered their severed heads to the Emperor as a ‘coronation gift’, along with demands that could never be met and the declaration of war.

  
If she had to pick the day the Empire died, it was the Thirtieth of Frostfall, 171 Fourth Era. The Empire that survived the war was living on borrowed time, and everyone knew it.

  
“My name is Delphine. I returned from Valenwood in Heartfire. I helped you organize the twentieth century First Era records in the archives, do you remember that?”

  
The aged man's shoulders slumped and he walked back to the door. He rested his hand on the opening, his knuckles pale with age and decades spent without the sun.

  
“Do you remember what I told you about the World-Eater? The best we can hope for, Delphine, is to die together.”

  
“ _There's the Blades agent!_ ”

  
Delphine snatched the sword from the door and whirled around. Another wizard and warrior entered from the vaults; their third companion couldn't be far behind.

  
“I'd really like that 'together' part!” She snapped back at the door, already hearing the loremaster throwing back bolts and turning knobs. The Thalmor reached the top of the ramp and-

  
Delphine frowned and backed against the door when she saw they weren't calling destruction or bound weapons in their hands, but paralysis spells. She was fine with being killed: she'd expected it for years now. Capture terrified her. She swore thirty years ago she would go down fighting. A ward between the two Thalmor and herself made them slow down.

  
“Lay down your weapons, Dragonborn, and I promise you will not be harmed.” The wizard's hands glowed green and she swallowed. She doubted that they'd keep her in one piece-

  
The ward nearly dropped as her concentration dipped. Dragonborn? They thought she was-

  
A behemoth of ice dropped out of Oblivion in between the elves and her. Delphine swore and ducked down, hoping her magic shield would withstand a ton of ice smashing over it. A scream and the crunch of bones against the far wall made her stand again. The remaining wizard cursed in Altmeris and covered his retreat with fireballs, the atronach lumbering toward him. Esbern threw open the door and shot a lightning bolt under the frost atronach's arms at the wizard, staggering him. The atronach did the rest. Esbern stood up and ran an eye over her guild leathers, then the atronach.

  
“Inside. I need to pack some things. Don't want to leave anything useful for those daedraspawn.”

  
“Here, I'll give you a hand.”

  
She locked the door behind them and looked around. The living quarters were spacious for a hole in the sewer's tunnels- it even had proper kitchen, bedroom and study areas. She smiled, noting the stacks of books scattered over the small bunker: he’d always felt at home in the archives. Remembering that the Thalmor had sacked and razed the temple they'd called home made her sigh sadly.

  
Esbern flitted about the room, shoving books, journals and scrolls into bags before tossing them by the door. “There should be an annotated copy of _A Children's Anuad_ over by the cutting board. And- see if the _Akatosh Dichotomy_ is there. I can't find it over here.”

  
Delphine looked about the kitchen for the book, seeing a skinned rabbit on the cutting board. Behind it and securing a knifeholder against the wall were the books he'd mentioned.

  
“Oh! _The Dragon War_ : can't have them reading that.” He muttered to himself, tossing another book into a bag.

  
“Esbern-”

  
“I know, I know. But where we're going it will be difficult to start this archive again, and gods know we might need it to find the way.”

  
Delphine set the two books into a stuffed bag and carried it over to the door. “Where are we going?” She wasn’t complaining. As long as he had a destination on a map, she didn’t much care where they were going.

  
“Sky Haven Temple, and Alduin's Wall.” Esbern said, his voice quivering with excitement. Something historic then, though she couldn't remember what. “The Akaviri made a mural at Skyrim's Blade temple in the late First Era. Like most things Akaviri it is part history, part prophecy and all needlessly obfuscated, but I hope to make sense of it. Emperor Reman II dedicated the temple's blood seal, so it should be safe and waiting for you to open it.”

  
“Me?” Delphine took another pack from him, making that four by the bunker's door.

  
Esbern looked up, his blue eyes laughing but quizzical. “You _are_ the Dragonborn.”

  
She froze and stood up straighter. “Esbern, no: I'm not the Dragonborn.” She could see the hope drain from his body and his hands slowed to a stop.

  
“You're not?”

  
“No, but there _is_ a Dragonborn. I've made contact with them.” She didn't have the heart to tell him their 'savior' was an Altmer, and Thalmor at that. Even with the mitigating factors, he didn’t need that right now.

  
“Oh. Well that's...” He shook his head and slung the fifth bag onto his back. “It doesn't matter. We can discuss this at the temple. Right now we have to move.”

  
Esbern picked up another two packs and peered outside the grate. “All clear. Let's go.” He threw back the door and crept out onto the walkway, one hand securing the straps to his bags and the other nursing a fireball spell. Delphine lifted the remaining packs - gods, they were heavy - and followed him outdoors.

  
Outside, the Warren's denizens were gathered around the dead elves. A man not much older than herself in a Legion helmet stripped the warrior's body of its Elven armor muttering dark curses and names. A man in a chef's hand and apron was cackling and dragging what remained of the wizard into his room. Delphine felt her stomach heave but said nothing, shouldering the pack of Esbern's books. Esbern curled his lips in disgust but dropped down to the bottom of the ramp, avoiding the others entirely, and Delphine followed his lead.

  
“Esbern, try _not_ to kill the female wizards: leave them to me.” She said hesitantly. She didn’t want to explain fully until they were safely away - the Ratway’s corridors had a bad habit of echoing farther than expected. Esbern looked at her, trying to piece the facts together in his mind, but she gave him nothing. His mouth twitched.

  
“As you wish. Aah- I don’t suppose you have transportation aboveground?”

  
“I figured we could help ourselves to some Elven hospitality.” She said with a smirk. He chuckled and held the door to the Flagon open after checking that it was clear. He started walking into the Flagon proper before Delphine yanked his collar into the bedroom.

  
“This way.”

  
He grunted but didn't complain.

  
Delphine crept inside the Cistern, keeping to the shadows. Most of the other thieves had scattered: Mercer must have torn into them about something or other. She only saw Brynjolf talking to the nervous Nord from earlier. She might have thought about sneaking around them, if they weren’t standing right next to her gear and bed.

  
“Kieran, it doesn’t work like that-”

  
“Bryn, I just want what Tonilia will give you for the staves. I can’t be here when they come poking around the Cistern- I’ve got to get back to Winterhold-”

  
“Kieran, they’re _not_ getting in the Cistern- Gyna.” He blinked at her, then stared blankly at Esbern. “Gods, _tell me you didn’t_.”

  
“Alright, then: I didn’t.” Delphine stated simply.

  
Brynjolf scowled. “Do you have any idea-”

  
“ _That's them!_ ” A man shrieked. “That's the woman and Esbern!”

  
Delphine spun to turn around-

  
Brynjolf shoved her down behind the bed, knocking Esbern over as shock magic crackled by the tavern door. The other Nord landed heavily on the floor-

  
Lightning boomed. Brynjolf grunted and fell, his shoulder smoking.

  
“ _Bryn!_ ”

  
“Bastards...” Brynjolf hissed, pressing a palm against the charred hole in his armor. “By Talos, what have you done?!”

  
She put her hand on his shoulder - his good shoulder. “Just stay down, we’ll handle this.”

  
Esbern finished summoning a storm atronach, which wheeled back and around the short bridges over the Cistern’s pools, firing off bolts of shock magic. Delphine grabbed the bed’s frame and hauled it on its side.

  
The Thalmor were moving around but every time she peeked over the edge another lightning bolt zapped the bed’s thinning mattress of straw. Delphine crinkled her nose and strung an arrow: the bed was starting to smoke.

  
“Don’t _hit **her**_ , you fools! We need the Dragonborn alive!” The commander shouted in Altmeris.

  
Delphine aimed an arrow through a gaping hole in the straw and fired. “Why in Talos’ name do they think I’m the godsdamned-”

  
She stopped, remembering why she was wielding Talara’s sword instead of her own. Her katana was wedged in that dragon’s neckbones, right next to a heavily traveled highway. It didn’t have her name on it or anything like that, but High Elves thought logically, and assuming an active Blades agent was the Dragonborn after finding a Blades sword buried in a dragon’s skeleton was very logical.

  
That is, if the Dragonborn hadn’t spread the rumor herself to throw them off her own trail.

  
Delphine dragged a hand down her face. Of course the Thalmor had found it. Why would the Divines make things easy for her?

  
One Thalmor soldier tried walking around the far end of the Cistern, keeping his shield raised. The other Nord ducked back behind Brynjolf and started digging through the staves.

  
“There’s maybe eight of them left.” Esbern counted through a hole in the mattress. The atronach crumbled and he winced, then started summoning another one.

  
Delphine looked down at the staves the Nord was going through. A few were crowned with the round pale orbs for Restoration, though most bore the clawed soul gem crystals for Conjuration.

  
“Are those charged?”

  
“No. I have to- I empty them before carrying them. It’s safer. Where is it- where is it?” The young Nord’s eyes lit up as he found the sole dragon’s headed staff, with deep arcing lines trailing down its open mouth. “ _Yes._ ”

  
He fumbled with his pocket and took out a smaller soul gem, letting it melt into the staff. The dragon’s mouth glowed, and he handed it to Esbern.

  
“Thunderbolt. It’s probably got one, maybe two shots.”

  
Esbern nodded and crawled to the far end of the bed, pointing just the tip around the corner. Delphine shot another arrow through the straw, barely missing one of the elves in armor. He ducked behind a bookshelf and fired a lightning bolt back at her.

  
“What are you waiting for, Old Man? An invitation?!” Delphine snapped.

  
“It’s not charged enough.”

  
“What?!” The Nord paled. “Damn Enthir, what did he put in that common? A _skeever_?”

  
Delphine ducked away from her sniping hole as a firebolt slammed into the bed. The straw was almost completely burned. Her ears perked up at shouts in Altmeris. “They’re trying to flank us-”

  
“Kieran-!”

  
The younger Nord stood up letting a lightning bolt loose as soon as he was on his feet. Delphine swore and leapt up beside him, firing rapidly at the distracted elves. Esbern grunted and did the same, hurling a fireball at three of them. The idiot didn’t even cast an armor spell, what was he thinking? The last wizard fell, a charred hole in his chest and an arrow in his eye.

  
Delphine backhanded his shoulder. “ _Don’t_ do that again. Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

  
“Are they all dead?” Brynjolf asked, wincing as he stood up.

  
Kieran rubbed his nose and looked around. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re dead.”

  
Brynjolf jerked his head toward the tavern entrance. “Lock the door.” Kieran hurried over and slid a bar over the frame-

  
“ _You._ ” Delphine stepped back, away from Brynjolf’s finger shaking in her face. “Get out. Get _out_. You can talk to Vex when you stop murdering everything in sight. _I_ don’t want to see you again.”

  
Esbern cleared his throat and frosted the bed’s frame with a spell, dousing the fire. Delphine sighed and shrugged her shoulders, looking around the guild hall and grimaced. Mercer’s desk was smoldering, three beds - not counting the one they used for cover - were peppered with arrows and stray Destruction spells, and there were a dozen or so dead Thalmor scattered around the Cistern.

  
Yeah, she wouldn’t be happy about the mess either.

  
“Understood. Come on, old man.”

  
“‘Old man’?” Esbern scoffed, picking up his sack of books again. “You’re not exactly a spry young thing _yourself_.”

  
“Alright, alright...”

  
She ushered Esbern over to the ladder leading to the cemetery. Delphine frowned, looking over the corpses. The Nord that ratted them out wasn’t among them. That could be a problem, but they didn’t have time to go hunting for him, especially if there were more Thalmor in the Ratways.

  
“What, um- Bryn. What do we do with the..?” Kieran asked, looking around at the Thalmor.

  
Brynjolf threw his hands up in the air. “Oblivion if I know, Kieran.”

  
Delphine shut the trap door behind them. She walked to the chain and cast Detect Life: no one in the cemetery.

  
“Where is this ancient Blades sanctuary?”

  
“Aah...” He looked around, half-expecting to see a Thalmor spy hiding in the corner. “Near the Karthspire.” He murmured at last.

  
Delphine blinked. The Karthspire was an island - mountain, really - in the Karth River. In the Reach, clear on the other side of southern Skyrim. Where the dispossessed Reachmen were terrorizing everyone on the roads, to hear travelers say it, especially Nords. She wasn’t from High Rock - she was raised in the Champion’s hometown of Chorrol - but maybe, maybe she could pass as a Reachman. Esbern, hunched as his back was from a lifetime of poring over books, still had the height and broad shoulders of a Nord.

  
That was if they weren’t unlucky enough to find the Forsworn holed up in the canyon _around_ the mountain. They’d need an army to get them out, and another three to hold it. Esbern didn’t seem that concerned.

  
“Esbern, that’s going to be _crawling_ with Forsworn.”

  
He shrugged. “Hmm, well- I never said it would be _easy_.”

  
“No, I guess not.”

  
Delphine rolled her eyes and pulled the chain, sliding the fake sarcophagus above into the wall and revealing a drowsy, dripping afternoon outside. Cold, as usual, because it was Morning Star and the winter was just starting. Esbern coughed and slipped a ratty hood over his head and shoulders. He walked up the stairs and she put her hand on his shoulder.

  
“It _is_ good to see you again.”

  
It was good to see _any_ other Blades agent again, even if none of them would be the one she wanted to see more than anything. Esbern smiled through his bushy beard and squeezed her arm. They walked up together, creeping along the city’s outer wall, keeping to the shadows and heading for the northwestern gate and the stables. They could stop in Rorikstead or anywhere in Whiterun before heading on to the Karthspire in the morning. She didn’t want to be out in the Reach’s foggy crags after dark.


	13. Sealed by Blood

 

> _There are those that say the Blades still exist around us, in hiding from the Thalmor. Waiting as they have done time and time again, for a Dragonborn to return. For one to protect, for one to guide them._

* * *

  
STORM clouds hung ominously in the sky over Solitude, drenching the city in a blanket of fog and rain. It had poured all the way from Dragon Bridge yesterday, and looked like it’d continue clear till Sundas. Delphine touched the brunette wig again, making sure it was secure underneath the cloak’s hood before sneaking into the alley between Solitude’s western wall and the Winking Skeever.

  
She set her pack behind a cluster of barrels, out of sight of the gate guards. Because of the city’s geography - namely being built over a natural rock archway with steep drops on three sides - the southwestern gate was the only entrance into the city. It was the only way the Dragonborn could come in, once Malborn delivered that letter, so all she had to do was wait.

  
Waiting until the fifteenth was torture, but Malborn only had two, maybe three hours free a month. Delphine only came to get the Dragonborn’s schedule from Malborn, but when he told her they were at the Embassy in between assignments, she sent him back up with a message. ‘You left a Blade at the Skeever’, and to _only_ tell Irowe that. Hopefully that would get her attention; she didn’t know how much clearer she could be without blowing her cover.

  
Delphine huffed and pushed soaked brown locks out of her eyes. She still didn’t have a proper plan for getting the Dragonborn to the Temple, just a vague idea of explaining what was needed. Maybe that was better though, because her plans where the Dragonborn was concerned never went according to plan. Best to be flexible, though she _did_ have a bottle of sleeping draught if she needed it.

  
“Good morning. Welcome to Solitude-”

  
“Make it stop raining, _then_ it will be a ‘good morning’.” A familiar Altmeri accent snapped.

  
Delphine sat up and peered between barrels. Sure enough, coming through the gate and evocative of a wet hen, was the Dragonborn. The elf stomped over to the inn, ignoring puddles and the flow of traffic in favor of the shortest route. Delphine grabbed her pack and crept behind the barrels, resting her arms on the sill of an arch cut into the inn’s jetty wall.

  
“Spare a coin for an old woman?” Delphine asked in the most grating voice she could muster. The Altmer’s face flickered, revealing the scars underneath the illusion of an unmarred face before it was hidden again.

  
She wasn’t expecting the elf to lunge for her and try to drag her through the small archway. She doubted she’d fit but she didn’t want to find out. Delphine threw her arms and knees up, using the wall for balance, and pulled, breaking the hold on her dress. Irowe reached for her again, trying to pull herself through the opening, but her hips wouldn’t fit.

  
Irowe settled for glaring menacingly through the archway. “What do you want? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be hiding under a rock somewhere?”

  
Delphine looked around. This wasn’t the best place to explain the situation but no one was nearby and the Dragonborn looked like she needed convincing.

  
“I know a way to defeat Alduin.” Irowe’s face flickered again, her eyes wide. “The details are locked behind a door, and you're the only one that can open it.”

  
Irowe’s face was emotionless, but her eyes unfocused. Delphine wondered if she seemed aloof even for an Altmer because she had to channel her emotions through magic now. Maybe she had always been like this. The Dragonborn blinked and leaned against the wall, her eyes finally settling on the raindrops falling in the road.

  
“Who says I _want_ to defeat Alduin?” She asked quietly.

  
Delphine’s mouth twitched. From what she understood of Esbern’s never-ending lectures, the black dragon was their leader, and for all intents and purposes, a god. A Nordic, evil version of Akatosh whose sole purpose was to destroy the world and everything in it. There was only one clear prophecy, detailed in a book about Dragonborns that she’d read until the words were smudged and the spine broken. ‘ _The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn_ ’. She wasn’t a scholar like Esbern, but the meaning was clear enough.

  
“You’re the only one that can.” Delphine said, her throat tightening. “If you don’t, the world- it’s gone. The world and everyone in it. And if I was him, I’d come after you _first_ , once he’s too powerful for you to kill.”

  
She didn’t mention her son, she didn’t want to play that card and frighten the woman. She looked like she’d gotten the message. Irowe exhaled and ran a hand over her face. Delphine noted that her eyes were flickering beneath her lids, and her head made little twitches from side to side like she was debating something.

  
“I know...” She said at last. Irowe sighed and tucked her hands back under her arms. “Perhaps you can explain that to Amuril. He won’t listen to me.”

  
Delphine bit her lip. She didn’t know that her husband would listen to her, but the Dragonborn and the situation at least called for an attempt.

  
“Well, if I have the chance to talk with him, I’ll try. Right now, I need you to come with me- I need you to _trust me_ , and we have to go now.”

  
Irowe nodded, but her shoulders slumped. “I assume this door is at the bottom of some draugr-infested crypt like all the others?”

  
Delphine clicked her teeth together. Not draugr, no. She didn’t need to know any of that however.

  
“The way's already clear; we just need you at the door.”

  
“Oh. Well that’s...” She shrugged. “Different. When would we be back?”

  
“Oh, it won’t take that long. The door’s not that far away.”

  
It could have been in Black Marsh, and she still would have said it was ‘nearby’. Everything was nearby, when you used the right measuring method.

  
Irowe considered her options and kicked a stone into the cobblestone street. “Lead the way then.”

  
Delphine nodded and squeezed out from behind the barrels to the main road. She walked ahead to the stables outside the city, the Dragonborn being smart enough to walk a few paces behind. When Delphine passed the southern portcullis, she made sure the Dragonborn was following her, then turned out of sight toward the mill. She fumbled with the sleeping draught, cramming a small rag inside the neck and resealing the bottle.

  
It wasn’t the best idea to let the Dragonborn know exactly where Sky Haven Temple was. The entrance was deep in the mountain and while she wasn’t an expert _every_ cavern in Skyrim had moss and mushrooms and cobwebs in it. Hopefully that would be little enough that she wouldn’t pry too much. They could wake her once they got to the entrance, so they could get the door open, and have her sleep again for the ride back.

  
They continued in the pouring rain, finally reaching the stables. Delphine saddled up the crag pony and held the reins so the Dragonborn could climb on. Irowe turned in the saddle, raising an eyebrow as Delphine hopped up behind her.

  
“Shouldn’t you be in front?”

  
“Trust me. You’ll want me behind you.”

  
Irowe looked her over, before finally turning around. “Very well. You’ll have to provide directions though.”

  
“Just follow the road down to Dragon Bridge.”

  
Irowe flicked the reins and led the horse out into the rain and up to the main road, then south down the slope. They rode in silence, ignoring the rain that drenched everything, now and then convincing the pony _not_ to climb the near-vertical rockface it so desperately wanted to climb. Irowe urged it on to a fast trot.

  
At that pace, reaching Dragon Bridge took only a half hour. They met only guards on the road - everyone else was holed up in their houses, away from the bitter rain. Even the saber cats and wolves preferred their dens to the exposed tundra. They passed under the ancient stone archways and the iconic dragon’s head, and Irowe pulled the pony to the side of the road once they crossed the River Karth.

  
“Now where are we going?” Irowe called back over the thunder.

  
“To sleep.”

  
“What-”

  
Delphine clapped the soaked rag and her hand over the woman’s mouth. She screeched and clawed at Delphine’s arms - and for a moment Delphine was afraid she would Shout - but her body went limp and it was all Delphine could do to keep her in the saddle. Delphine swore and wrapped a spare belt around their waists, angling her down so she could mostly see over the Dragonborn’s shoulder.

  
It wasn’t perfect, but it was doable, and it’d have to do.

  
Delphine reached for the reins, careful to keep Irowe’s weight between her elbows, and guided the pony home. It’d been decades since she rode with an Altmer, and her last saddle-mate was a masterful rider.  She closed her eyes and exhaled, pushing the memories away. It was going to be a long, lonely ride to the sanctuary.

  
The winter storm had one advantage, namely she was the only soul crazy or desperate enough to be out in the weather. She didn’t even see birds or deer on the plains, and apart from the thunderstorm the trip was quiet, almost peaceful. She enjoyed it as much as she could, since Esbern was going to be a nonstop chatterbox after being cooped up alone for two days.

  
She looked back and noticed a grey speck in the rain that darted between outcrops. It moved too fast to be anything but a rider.

  
Delphine’s blood chilled. How long had they been followed? It had to be the Thalmor - no one else had reason to be out here, or think they were worth robbing. She looked around: Rorikstead was a half hour’s ride away and the tundra was too open to hide. There was a rocky outcrop to her right, maybe enough to lose them in if she hurried. It might even lead to the Karth canyon, but she couldn’t decide if that would be a godsend or a disaster.

  
She goaded the pony and it leapt off the road into the hills. Their tracker did the same. Delphine flicked the reins and headed for the hilliest looking bluff, where her crag pony had the advantage. She made the mistake of looking back, and saw the rider was gaining on them. Delphine held Irowe tighter and urged the pony to go faster.

  
They made it to a small valley and- Delphine spotted a winding trail up the far cliff and bolted for it. The crag pony nickered with delight, bounding up the rocks and wanting to turn as soon as its shoulders cleared the edge. She glanced back down. The rider was rounding the first turn below, but she could see their mount was made for distance, not agility.

  
After reaching the top Delphine urged the pony over behind an outcrop and dismounted with Irowe. The pony stamped the ground and tossed its head, staring down at them. Delphine laid Irowe down against the rocks and unsheathed her sword.

  
She crept back to the edge and glanced down: the rider was a few dozen feet below her, and she could hear him yelling in Tamrielic. There was an Altmeri accent but it was faint, almost hidden by another she couldn’t place. Her mind conjured the scent of heavy spices and she crinkled her nose.

  
“ _Irowe!_ Stop running away, you infantile-”

  
The rider’s voice cut off abruptly with the rumble of falling rocks and mud. Delphine peered down: his horse was struggling on the tight turns below. He muttered something and had the horse step back so he could dismount safely. The rider glared up at her and Delphine jerked back out of sight.

  
“Irowe, come on now. It’s pouring. We don’t have time for this!”

  
The horse demanded his attention, whinnying and sputtering how it didn’t want to keep going but he walked it up the muddy trail. Delphine clutched the sword tighter and glanced at the unconscious mer by the pony. How fast could she wake her? Was that even wise if there were more than just the one? She might confirm the Dragonborn’s identity if this justiciar was just guessing in the dark. Could she afford to chance it?

  
“I know you feel this is important business but would it really _kill you_ to wait for me? Honestly...” He helped the horse - almost resorting to dragging it - around the next bend. “And I _know_ you can hear me!” He shouted. “Might I suggest taking your wedding ring off next time you decide to run off on your own again? You’re not even making this difficult.”

  
Delphine blinked and looked down again. What were the odds... She sighed and shook her head. Of course. Why would the gods make things easy for her?

  
“You’re being unusually quiet.” He mentioned, a hint of concern creeping into his voice.

  
“She’s asleep.” Delphine called out. She couldn’t hear him moving over the rain, maybe he’d stopped to reconsider the situation. “You’re her husband?”

  
“I am. I take it you are the ‘Blade at the Skeever’.” Delphine moved to sheath her sword. She had her spells if he was hostile, but she felt like appearing non-threatening was more important at the moment. “Is she alright?”

  
“Yes, to both. You’re alone?”

  
“Yes. I prefer not to involve others in this... dragon business.”

  
Delphine nodded and slid the sword in entirely and secured it. “Go ahead and come on up then.”

  
She made sure he was coming up before retreating back to the outcrop. Irowe _had_ to look presentable. Delphine fumbled with straightening her robes and cloak, sitting her up and pushing wet hair from her scarred face.

  
The mer crested the ledge then, walking a dapple grey through up the trail. Under his cloak were master wizard robes, and she could see the faint green shimmer of an Alteration enchantment through the rain. He led the horse so it was slightly under an overhang and knelt down to check her. Delphine bit her cheek and adjusted her cloak, watching his shoulders relax as he saw the puffs of air from her mouth.

  
He stood with a groan and turned to her. She hoped what Malborn said about him was true, but... if it wasn’t...

  
He offered his hand to her. “Amuril.” He said. “Amuril Malcior, but I suspect you already knew that.”

  
She took his hand, relieved that it wasn’t a feint to stab or shock her with his left hand. “Delphine. I apologize, I know this isn’t the best way to introduce myself, but...” She couldn’t think of any excuse good enough and stating ‘well you’re Thalmor, you should be used to this’ wouldn’t go over well. “Old habits, you know?” She added weakly.

  
His face sobered, and any hint of what he was thinking was smothered by the rain. Slowly he took his hand back. “It’s understandable, but please don’t do it again. Where she goes, I go.”

  
“Understood.” She shifted her feet in the mud, nervously glancing down at Irowe. “I put her to sleep because we don’t want the Thalmor knowing where we’re going. She should be awake in an hour or so.”

  
“She wouldn’t tell, but...”

  
His voice trailed off and he looked south over his shoulder. Delphine followed his gaze, unable to see anything through the rain. Esbern insisted that the Reach historically was infested with dragons, harboring the winged monsters with scores of ledges and clefts to lair in. She wondered if he’d heard one, but her trained ears couldn’t hear any echoing roars over the rain.

  
Amuril shook his head and bent down, scooping Irowe into his arms and climbing into the saddle. Delphine mounted hers and, after a terse moment where she thought he was going to run for the road, they continued deeper into the bluffs.

  
They rode through the rain, keeping to the heights and gentler valleys as long as they could. Several crumbling redoubts dotted the hills and they kept well away from them. These days and this far from the hold capitals, the flickering lights inside belonged to bandits, necromancers, or Forsworn guerillas. Any other hold she might consider the Legion or Stormcloaks occupying a fort but not the Reach. Blood and Silver might flow through Markarth, but the Reach belonged to the Forsworn.

  
They cut wide to the north, out of sight of the mining settlement at Soljund’s Sinkhole, and hugged the northern cliffs until the Karth Canyon lay down below them. Delphine led the crag pony down past a cobbled-together forge area into what was once an expansive Forsworn settlement.

  
A gust up the river assaulted them with the stench of death. Delphine clawed for her scarf. Amuril gagged. He stuttered a surprised noise at what was left of a Briarheart, half-fused into the cliff face.

  
“Blessed Arkay, what...” He closed his mouth, only because leaving it open made the smell palpable.

  
When she and Esbern first came here, there were bodies: young and old, man and woman. Some were charred into grotesque stances, others bitten in half or exploded from a fireball, raked with claws, and they were everywhere. The dragon responsible - a brute of a beast - was weakened by the Forsworn enough that Esbern and Delphine were able to drive it away.

  
They’d spent most of their days, between realizing the sanctuary was sealed and waiting for the 15th, burying the bodies and cleaning up the main avenues of the Forsworn camp. Several of the causeways had been destroyed, and the river was dammed with debris and a handful of bodies trapped behind logs and boulders. The rising putrid water would haunt the canyon for some time.

  
“A dragon attacked this camp. Nearly took out Old Hroldan too, down the way. It flew off toward the Druadachs near a fortnight ago and we haven’t seen it since.”

  
“Were there any survivors?” He asked softly.

  
“We think so, but they ran. Haven’t seen anyone near the canyon since we came here.”

  
For that, she couldn’t blame them. Besides, the rumors that the place was deserted but haunted should keep other opportunists away for a while.

  
Amuril swallowed and held Irowe closer, following Delphine down ramps of wooden boards, fallen barricades and natural bridges to the causeways crisscrossing the river. The water pushed up through the boards when the horses stepped on them, but the structure itself stood fast. A few leather canvas and ‘living areas’ dotted the branching bridges, where Delphine and Esbern hadn’t dismantled them yet, but the main path to the Karthspire was clear.

  
Inside the caverns was a smaller camp, which Esbern and Delphine made use of. The fireplace was down to embers; Esbern had to be further in. Delphine dismounted and tied the pony to a pole, helping Amuril down with Irowe and putting up his horse. She lit a torch from the embers and cleared her throat.

  
“It’s this way.”

  
She made sure he didn’t need help and led the way deeper into the mountain to the open caves, where the rain poured in. They walked over the Akaviri stone bridges, with those stupid turning pillars (Esbern took an hour to explain before setting them to the ‘Dragonborn’ symbol making the bridge come down). Esbern wasn’t there, so they continued past the pressure plates that thankfully Esbern had guided her past correctly the first time. Up ahead, faintly over the rain, she heard a rich voice singing a mournful song.

 _We need saviors to free us from Alduin's rage_  
_Heroes on the field of this new war to wage_  
_For if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world_  
_Lost in the shadow of the black wings unfurled_

  
“Esbern?”

  
Delphine held her torch out, keeping under the overhangs so the flame wasn’t put out. A flurry of movement to her right drew her attention. The old Nord was red in the face and grabbing up bundles of charcoal pencils, journals and what looked like a sketchbook.

  
 “Aah- Delphine! My apologies.”

  
“I don’t mind you singing, old friend.” She chuckled.

  
“Yes, well- I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow! Did you learn where we could find... her...”

  
His face paled and his knuckles went whiter than his beard. Delphine turned. Amuril was climbing down the stairs, Irowe’s head resting against his neck, and he stared wide-eyed at the enormous effigy of Reman and surrounding murals.

  
“Stars above, this is...”

  
Delphine laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. “Esbern, this is Amuril Malcior and his wife.”

  
“Oh!” His tone was both self-berating and relieved. “Yes, yes of course. I apologize, I’ll just- Let me put this mess away and we can...”

  
Esbern put the journals and charcoal away in a knapsack. Amuril reached the bottom and kept gaping at the architecture. Delphine glanced around. There wasn’t much left of the walls, save two support walls that jutted out around the carved head, and of course the ringed mound in the center Esbern insisted was an Akaviri blood seal. Most of the cavern had been reclaimed by the mountain: chipped away by falling rocks, eroded smooth by rain, and covered in moss and vines.

  
Esbern walked over to Amuril, bowing his head in greetings since Amuril’s hands were full. “Esbern, archivist and dragonlore expert. You’ve met my colleague Delphine.”

  
“Yes.” Amuril nodded. He frowned and looked around the open cavern, peering through the rain. “Is this all of you? Two people?”

  
Esbern paled. Delphine choked and started coughing. He was Thalmor, but she hadn’t thought he’d be _that_ blunt-

  
 “-I’m sorry! That was- I’m so very sorry! I can’t believe I said that. That was incredibly- I apologize. I just expected that- since she was contacted at the Embassy it was one of your agents in the Thalmor. That was all I meant.” Amuril said hastily.

  
He looked like he wanted to say more but decided against it, figuring he’d said enough. Honestly, he looked like he wanted to bury his face in Irowe’s neck and disappear. Delphine exhaled. Yes, he was Thalmor, and an Altmer even if he wasn’t completely brainwashed. She should have expected the lack of tact. She shook her head as Esbern quietly retreated, picking his way over to the effigy under overhangs and hugging the pack to his chest.

  
“We don’t have any agents in the Embassy. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s just the two of us.”

  
Amuril stared at her, perplexed. “You aren’t in contact with..? But you must be...”

  
He stopped and frowned, gaze flicking from the stones to the rain to the torch, his lips pursing more and more. “There _must be_ some of your agents in the Thalmor. You must be mistaken, or perhaps your Grandmaster hasn’t informed you-”

  
“Grandmaster Jerauld died at Cloud Ruler, and the Thalmor killed all of our agents in the Dominion before they started the war.” Delphine said sternly, cutting him off. Insensitive elf or no, he was starting to pick at wounds she didn’t want opened again. “ _Believe me_ when I say there’s no one else.”

  
Amuril did not take the hint- if anything he redoubled his efforts to persuade her. “Well I sincerely _doubt_ the Beautiful or Royalists would have the audacity or the ability to pull something of this scope off without the Thalmor noticing. That requires a dedication beyond simply disagreeing with their politics or childish rebellion. The Blades are the only organization they _could_ belong to.”

  
Delphine frowned and crossed her arms. Amuril continued.

  
“There _are_ agents inside the Thalmor to undermine them- the mer in Hammerfell was the one who insisted I join to help them. There must be one in Cyrodiil at least and they _are_ or are working under the instruction of Blades.”

  
He huffed and scowled down at her, his face softening slowly when hers didn’t. Delphine closed her eyes and sighed. Malborn said he was basically a good person, and likely did a few questionable (to the Thalmor) things back in Cyrodiil. No one said anything about hidden Blades agents or grand conspiracies. She didn’t know this mer, she didn’t know how far he could be _trusted_.

  
“Do you have any proof?”

  
“... No. They cut contact with me after I was caught in Cyrodiil, and I was only given instructions in writing: I never met with anyone.” Amuril said quietly.

  
“Well...” Delphine shook her head as the thunder rolled above them. “If there are Blades inside the Thalmor,” and she knew there wasn’t, “we have no way to contact them at the moment.”

  
Amuril exhaled. She could see on his face he knew she didn’t believe him, and she didn’t frankly care.

  
“I’m sorry. I wish I had more information or knew for certain so I could prove it to you.”

  
“Well, if you do, let us know.” She turned and walked over to Esbern and the blood seal. “Esbern, you needed that door open.”

  
“Aah, yes.” Esbern piped up before digging back down into his pack. “Forgive me, I was- just allow me a moment to find the- there it is.”

  
Esbern withdrew an ebony knife and stood up. He walked toward the two Altmer-

  
“What are you doing?” Amuril asked, his voice rising as he backed away, keeping both eyes on that knife.

  
Delphine wiped a hand down her face. “Esbern, _explain_ yourself before you just start bleeding people. You’re not a _vampire_.”

  
“What is going on? What are you doing?”

  
Esbern frowned, bushy eyebrows incredulous and he turned to Delphine. “You rode the _entire way here_ from Solitude and neglected to tell him about the blood seal? What were you-”

  
“I didn’t realize he was _coming_ until he showed up on his horse-”

  
“Can you please just explain what is going on? What is a blood seal and why have you drawn your knife?” Amuril yelled in exasperation.

  
Delphine and Esbern glared at each other before Esbern’s beard twitched. He shook his head and sheathed the knife, staring down at the ancient stones to put his thoughts together.

  
“Ahem. This is an Akaviri blood seal. When the sanctuary was abandoned in 212 of the Third Era, they sealed it so only a Dragonborn could open it. It’s a lost art that ensures the only way Sky Haven Temple can be opened is by, well, _blood_.” He nodded and gestured to the limp form in Amuril’s arms. “Her blood.”

  
Amuril blinked, convinced but still wary. “And... why do we need inside this temple?”

  
Esbern tugged at his beard. “You didn’t tell him about-”

  
“Esbern. Just talk. It’s what you’re best at.” Delphine snapped.

  
“This is Sky Haven Temple, the long-forgotten location of Alduin’s Wall: a mural the Akaviri made to record all they knew of dragons and the prophecies surrounding Alduin’s return. All my research has shown that the key to defeating Alduin and the dragons is written in Alduin’s Wall.”

  
Amuril readjusted Irowe in his arms. “... And you need her blood to get inside.”

  
“Yes. You have the gist of it.” Esbern nodded, massaging his forehead.

  
It was a long, tense silence before Amuril spoke.

  
“Very well. Give me the knife, I’ll do it.”

  
Esbern’s shoulders relaxed and he waited for Amuril to lay Irowe down to hand over the blade. Amuril peeled off her wet left glove and dried her skin as best he could. The skin was badly burned, and nearly as dark as the blade. Amuril held the metal against her palm, but hesitated.

  
“Do you have an empty vial?”

  
“I’m sure I can find one. Aah...” Esbern produced an empty potion bottle. “This should do.”

  
Amuril took the vial and set it down, then held her palm out again. Again he waited, staring down at her like he was considering not cutting her. He sliced her skin quickly and hissed under his breath, sliding the potion bottle underneath her palm as the blood bubbled out. Amuril brushed wet hair from her face, waiting for it to fill, watching her nervously.

  
“So this is late First Era? Twenty... second century?” Amuril asked, more to keep his mind off what he was doing than to engage in serious discussion. “That is Emperor Reman, I take it.” He nodded to the imposing effigy.

  
“Twenty-ninth. And yes, yes it is. Very astute.” Esbern chuckled, just as eager (or not) for the small talk. “Are you a scholar as well, Master Malcior?”

  
Amuril nodded side to side, watching the blood flow. “Of a few things, mainly Dwemer and the arcane. Given the situation, I felt it prudent to study up on ancient Nordic culture, around the time of the Dragon War.”

  
Delphine saw the glimmer in Esbern’s eyes and resisted the urge to run both hands down her face. Gods, the last thing she needed was two ‘scholars’ talking academic-speak and never letting her get a word in edgewise.

  
“Aah, so you have heard of Alduin’s Wall then?”

  
Amuril blinked. “Uhh... I’m sorry, but no. Most of my studies are limited to the early First.”

  
“... I see.”

  
The filling bottle sang out that pitch that it was nearly full and Amuril poured a concentrated healing spell into her palm. Delphine glanced over his shoulder: she couldn’t see the cut anymore, not through the patchwork of burns. Amuril held it carefully and stood up, walking through the rain to the stone rings.

  
“Keep your eyes open, Delphine. The door could be anywhere. Why, it could even be a spiraling set of stairs under the seal itself.”

  
Delphine rolled her eyes and nodded. Amuril knelt down and held a ward over his head to keep the rain out. Surprisingly the rivulets drained almost instantly, running off and leaving the inner channels dry. He held his breath and began pouring, slowly at first.

  
A drop of blood splashed up and the rings jerked to life, glowing where the blood flowed through. The rings in the seal turned, throwing Amuril off balance. He scrambled backwards landing on his back with the bottle still miraculously upright as the entire blood seal shone like Secunda. The carved head of Reman groaned and lifted backwards into the wall-

  
“Look! The entrance!” Delphine pointed.

  
The flight of steps behind the head led up further toward the peak and into darkness. Amuril rolled to his knees and stood, transfixed as they were as the effigy locked into place in the ceiling, barely a nose visible under the entryway. Esbern grinned over at Delphine with tears in his eyes, and she shared that feeling albeit with less nostalgia for history. This was a Blades sanctuary, just as Cloud Ruler had been.

  
It hit her at last that in a sense, she was coming home. Whether or not there were other Blades agents in the Thalmor, she and Esbern could rebuild here. They could have recruits again, and fight dragons at first, then the Thalmor once their ranks increased. She could almost hear the sound of laughter and celebration over a dragon kill in the halls, armor being repaired, weapons sharpened...

  
She blinked back the tears gathering in her eyes. They would make it like Cloud Ruler had been but... different.

  
Thunder rolled. Amuril, after looking around at the two of them, returned to Irowe’s side. Delphine shook herself out of her musings and cleared her throat. Esbern took the hint.

  
“Aah, yes. Master Malcior: I believe as you both were the ones to open it, you should have the honor of being the first inside.”

  
Amuril blinked. He looked at them, back at the stairs leading outside, to the stairs leading further into the Karthspire, then back to them.

  
“Given the number of traps strewn about the entrance, wouldn’t it be safer for her in the middle?” He asked.

  
“Oh, I doubt there’s any more security past this seal: this would be the main entrance-”

  
“If that’s what you want.” Delphine cut him off. “Esbern, make sure it’s clear.”

  
Esbern shook his head, giving the slightest of eyerolls, and cast a candlelight spell. “Hmph. I will let you know if there is anything substantial, besides the usual _cobwebs_...”

  
He started in, pausing at the threshold to wait for Amuril to pick up Irowe. Delphine crept past puddles and held her torch against the wall; there was no overhang in front of the door. Esbern was already over whatever irritation he harbored at the two of them, giddy with anticipation. He took a deep breath, a smile picking at the edges of his mouth, and stepped inside. Delphine waited for Amuril to enter, then followed them out of the rain.


	14. Accursed Lineage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 06/10/2018: So I was going back through and while in the Word doc I had nixed the 'Dreamwalker exposition dump' part of this chapter since... gosh, posting chapter 21? 22? I uh... hadn't actually updated the posted chapter! Whoops, mea culpa.
> 
> The updated canon is that Irowe is fuzzy on the Dreamwalkers - she knows they exist but she's unaware of to what extent or any of the logic behind it (she knows Ornacar was one, and suspects the High Kinlord is too). And since her family murdered the only other person she did share her Dreamwalker knowledge with, she has kept mum about her suspicions.

> _We need saviors to free us from Alduin's rage_  
>  _Heroes on the field of this new war to wage_  
>  _For if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world_  
>  _Lost in the shadow of the black wings unfurled_

* * *

  
BRAZIERS lined the walls leading up into the mountain, somehow still filled with oil even after all these centuries. Amuril waited for Esbern to light them, marveling at the carvings that covered from the floor into the darkness where a ceiling must have been out of sight. Murals and etchings of fierce warriors and heavily symbolized figures, flowing lines with bold, sharp corners, all deeply etched into the rock. It was obvious there was some meaning to these symbols, but he couldn’t understand them.

  
Amuril adjusted Irowe in his arms, feeling his muscles burning as the stairs just went on and on and on. Irowe wasn’t light in any sense, and his age was making itself felt more and more every passing minute. However, his present company, with expected lifespans taken into account, was ‘older’ than he was, so he kept quiet and soldiered on.

  
They passed through another set of doors with that strange heart-shaped symbol with an arrow in the middle. Beyond it opened into a great cavern, with sunlight pouring through natural holes in the ceiling. Curving steps lined the walls, carved into the rock, leading up into the dark where the wind whistled. Amuril couldn’t tell if the stonework of the floor were stones laid down or etched into the cavern floor, but even centuries later the hairline cracks didn’t even harbor moss. The rain water flowed down the floor into small channels along the walls, and he suspected it led to an aquifer.

  
There was a long table in the center, thoroughly drenched by the skylights above. Amuril wondered if the openings had always been there, or if they were from after it was sealed. Larger rocks and rubble dotted the floor; the detritus had long since been washed away by the rains.

  
“I need to put her down somewhere that isn’t soaked...” Amuril muttered.

  
Delphine eyed him, then Irowe. She stood up on her toes and looked around, settling on a ledge two levels up. “There should be a dormitory or something, ahh...” She pursed her lips, brows knitted in memory. “Cloud Ruler’s was in the west wing, and this looks...”

  
Amuril looked around. He’d gotten turned around inside the caverns and with the thick rain he couldn’t see Magnus or the moons. Perhaps she had a compass, but he doubted it.

  
Delphine sighed. “Let’s try this way. It looks drier up there.”

  
Amuril let her go first and followed, carefully, up the slick steps.The walls opened into corridors but didn’t lead far. There was what looked like a library and some sort of alchemy room, but the floor glistened under Delphine’s torchlight. They continued up the steps, past a long ledge with no railing, not even a lip; he wondered how many people had fallen off that and hurt themselves.

  
“Do you smell that?” Amuril gagged.

  
Delphine stopped and looked around, then at her torch. It was rank, and as strong as the putrid river water had been. The storm’s wind gusted down the stairs and around the main hall below, ruining any chance of pinpointing where the smell was coming from.

  
“Must be a window or a door, picking up the wind from the canyon...” Delphine murmured.

  
Amuril groaned and held his breath. He couldn’t pull up his scarf, not with Irowe in his arms. At this point the burning in his arms and the stench was enough to lower his standards. The stairs were dry, and he set her down.

  
Amuril dug into his belt pouch and withdrew a vial of lavender extract, dabbing it on his scarf and holding it to his nose. He inhaled deeply and coughed, noting that Delphine also pulled a cloth up over her face. He frowned: the stairway to their right was noticeable brighter. Amuril walked up it, wondering if the walls were more reflective but no, they were the same dark gray as the rest of the sanctuary. Strange. He turned back to Delphine and froze.

  
Irowe was glowing.

  
“Irowe?”

  
He hurried back and kneeled beside her. Was there something enchanted in the sanctuary activated by Irowe’s presence? Delphine crouched down, studying Irowe. Amuril checked her pulse-

  
“Her heart’s beating faster.”

  
Delphine laid a hand on his shoulder and stood up. “I’ll find whatever it is and turn it off. Esbern! Get up here, figure out what’s wrong with her!”

  
“Be careful.”

  
She nodded to Amuril and jogged off up the stairs, following the lights. Amuril considered casting candlelight but Irowe was glowing bright enough he didn’t need to. Esbern crested the stairs and walked over, already fumbling with a potion bag; Amuril did the same. Upstairs he heard Delphine open a door and the rain got louder-

  
“Dragon! _Shit!_ ” Delphine hollered. “It’s burning- _She’s eating it!_ ”

  
A burst of light barreled down the corridor and the glow around Irowe strengthened into golden tendrils. The soul snapped into Irowe’s chest and her back arched, her mouth gaping in shock or pain. Her eyes shot open. Then she screamed.

  
Esbern immediately cast a healing spell on her- Irowe continued screaming and tried to crawl away, her arms flailing- Amuril reached out for her shoulders and hugged her to his chest, holding her tighter as she pushed hard against his chest.

  
“Irowe- Irowe!”

  
“ _I’m falling!_ ” She shrieked and grabbed at her head, her neck. Amuril cupped her head in his hands.

  
“Irowe. It’s me. You’re safe. Calm down. Calm- calm down. You’re sitting down. You’re safe. Calm down. Shh...”

  
Her breath came ragged and her eyes were wide, but she focused on Amuril. Her hands latched onto his wrists and squeezed. Amuril winced.

  
“You’re safe. You’re alright. You’re sitting down. It’s alright.”

  
Delphine stormed down the stairs. “Is she alright? -Esbern, that big purple bastard landed on a- a porch up here. Looks like it fell out of the sky.”

  
Irowe whimpered and grabbed her hair, shaking her head. “I’m falling...” She mouthed, voice too choked to even be a whisper.

  
Amuril pulled her into his arms and rocked her gently. “Irowe. Irowe, that wasn’t you. That was the dragon. You’re safe. It’s alright. You’re safe...”

  
She continued sobbing and he stroked her hair, angry that he couldn’t do more.

  
“You... you absorbed the dragon’s memories?” Esbern inquired.

  
“Looks like it.” Delphine muttered.

  
Irowe nodded through the tears.

  
“Forgive me, I... I don’t believe there has _ever_ been a Dragonborn that has taken a dragon’s soul before. Such things have never been documented. I was unaware...”

  
Thunder rolled. From the way Irowe was crying, she wouldn’t be done for several minutes. Delphine exhaled and turned to Esbern.

  
“Esbern. Come on. We need to find Alduin’s Wall.”

  
“I found it, I found it.” He said softly, turning to her. He gestured to the long wall without rails behind them. “It’s carved into the wall right here, facing the main entrance. It’s enormous, Delphine. Perfectly preserved.”

  
“Yes, well...” Delphine tapped her arms against her thighs. “Why don’t you go read it and see if you can figure out how she can kill Alduin. I’ll try and get more of these braziers lit so we’re not walking in the dark.”

  
“Hmm? Oh. Yes, of course.” Esbern said, finally understanding she was trying to give the Malciors space.

  
Irowe continued crying. Amuril continued rocking her as she clutched bunches of his robes, tight enough to wring water from them. He stroked her back and watched as the far corners of the room slowly lit as Delphine walked around. She disappeared up another staircase about the same time Irowe quieted down. She rubbed her nose on his shoulder and he scowled down at her.

  
“Who cut my hand?” Irowe sniffled and sat back.

  
“What?”

  
“It’s cut. Right there.” She traced her finger down her palm, tapping at the seared flesh.

  
“Oh. It’s- I did that.”

  
Irowe turned and crinkled her nose at him. “You cut my hand? Whatever _for?_ ”

  
“To open the door.”

  
“To open the- Nevermind. I don’t want to know what sort of door requires blood to open.” She shook her head. Irowe stopped, staring at the floor, then looked up at him. “What are you doing here? I don’t remember inviting you along.”

  
Amuril raised an eyebrow. “Well, then tell me where you’re going next time, so I don’t worry.”

  
“I didn’t _know_ where I was going. That would just make you worry _more_.” She huffed.

  
Amuril’s mouth twitched into that smile he gave when he conceded a point and wanted to drop the subject. Irowe had known him long enough that she stayed quiet, smoothing his damp robes and distracting herself with his collar.

  
“I’m sorry it’s not Dwarves, even if it is the Reach.” She said quietly, a wry smirk picking at the corner of her lips. Amuril didn’t feel like correcting her vocabulary today. “Maybe next time.”

  
Amuril’s brow knit together. “How do you...” He stopped, thought a moment, and had his answer. “Dragon.”

  
“Mirgrahviing. But yes: dragon.”

  
He shook his head. Someday, he was sure, he would get used to that: to her just... knowing things. The Red dragon she consumed at High Hrothgar was particularly helpful, he was told, when he wasn’t being a general nuisance. It was somewhat ironic that Irowe, who had very little patience or tact or- any of those social graces, was stuck with a dragon with all the self-restraint of a teething puppy.

  
Most days, she actually showed an improvement. When the two of them agreed on something however, _bad things_ happened. Amuril winced. Now that he thought of dragons and bad things...

  
“Speaking of which, there’s some dragon mural we’re supposed to look at.”

  
Irowe nodded and jumped to her feet, casting the Concealment spell as she waited for him. Amuril, being a century and a half older, was not as spry but stood up all the same. They descended the stairs, Irowe insisting that Amuril stay against the wall for balance, and avoided the cascade of running water on the stones. Esbern stood to their right, skirting one of the skylights and the pouring rain as he walked back and forth along the mural.

  
Carved deep into the full length of the wall were several scenes that could have been separate, but all flowed together. Dragons and warriors, burning cities, an Oblivion gate, kneeling warriors with raised swords, and center of it all, a great horned dragon roaring with three figures underneath a wave below it. Alduin’s Wall was aptly named after its centerpiece.

  
Esbern muttered something and noticed them out of the corner of his eye. “Aah. Dragonborn-”

  
“Just the short of it, please.” Irowe muttered, holding up a hand. “I don’t know what time it is but it must be late.”

  
Esbern coughed. Amuril grabbed Irowe’s shoulder and gestured to the wall. She could _not_ be that rude. These people were trying to _help her_ -

  
“Irowe. This is one of the few remaining examples of late First Era Akaviri sculpture-”

  
“It’s ugly and I don’t _care_ how old it is. We looked at it: can we go home now? We have to walk to Solitude in this weather. I want to be gone before dark.”

  
Delphine walked up the opposite stairs, scratching her nose to hide a smile. She cleared her throat. “Just the gist, Esbern.”

  
“Yes, well- ahem. This first panel records the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled Skyrim. And here, the Nords - well, Atmorans really - rebel, in the legendary Dragon War. Alduin’s defeat is the centerpiece. Here he is, falling from the sky-”

  
“ _It._ ”

  
The other three turned and stared at Irowe. Irowe crossed her arms and exhaled slowly. “Alduin is an ‘it’. They don’t have ‘male’ or ‘female’, they don’t have children either. It’s an _it_.”

  
Amuril started to smile - finally, he had a pet peeve of Irowe’s on par with his tic about Dwemer - but smothered it behind a cough. Best to save that for when he wanted to rile her up. He turned to Esbern.

  
 “Please continue.”

  
“Yes. The ah, the Nord Tongues are arrayed against... _it_ , and this, coming from their mouths, is the Akaviri symbol for ‘Shout’.”

  
“They used a _Shout_ to defeat Alduin?” Irowe asked, her tone saying she didn’t believe Esbern’s words.

  
Esbern’s face fell. “I take it you have never heard of such a thing, a Shout to bring a dragon down on the wing. It- it may be specific only to dragons, or even Alduin him- itself.” He offered.

  
Irowe frowned. She squinted at the giant carving of Alduin’s gaping maw and outstretched wings. Amuril stared too, but all he saw were the memories of Helgen. That black dragon breathing fire and Irowe... Irowe trapped underneath it, taking the full strength of its Shout.

  
He looked over at her, her eyes darting back and forth along the wall as she questioned the dragon souls inside her. The Illusion magic hid the burns, but he could feel them when he touched her. When he looked hard enough, despite not being a Master of that school, he could see them.

  
They were getting worse: darker, angrier; a deep crimson against what should be pale gold. Curawen insisted this was what happened with burns - they looked worse when they were actually getting better - but that didn’t change the fact that they _looked_ worse. They had to go to Alinor in the coming months, to get Melucar. If they ran into Irowe’s family - Mara forbid her _father_ \- things would quickly go downhill.

  
“... No. Most of the dragons were far from the Throat of the World when Alduin fell.” Irowe was silent a while longer. Amuril opened his mouth- “Shh. I’m thinking.”

  
Amuril exhaled slowly, rocking back on his heels, but kept quiet. Irowe nodded her head slowly, like she was trying to physically suss out the memory. “There _was_ a Shout, but...” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t remember the words.”

  
“Perhaps... the Greybeards may know of it.” Esbern said at last, like the words were lodged in his mouth.

  
What did they have against the Greybeards? True, they were mystics, the closest Nordic equivalent to the Psijics, although specializing in dragons rather than Mysticism-

  
Irowe slapped her face and ran her palm down to her chin. “I never gave Arngeir back that horn...” She bit her fingernails and flicked her hand away. “Well, I did say I had a life down among us mortals.”

  
Amuril winced. They did still have the horn - a dragon’s horn, Irowe explained, and he didn’t doubt her - in a sealed trunk under their bed at the Embassy. Perhaps not the safest place for it, but they couldn’t go carrying it around where someone might steal it. _Again_.

  
“We can do it first thing when the Steps melt.” He said.

  
Irowe put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “In _Rain’s Hand?_ ”

  
Amuril narrowed his eyes. They were not having this discussion. It was bad enough that they argued about it in front of Fallon, she wasn’t dragging the Blades into this as well. Mostly because he suspected they would be on her side-

  
“Rain’s Hand?!” Esbern exclaimed. “This is not something that can _wait_ that long!”

  
Amuril winced. As suspected. Irowe smirked and crossed her arms, as close to gloating quietly as she’d ever get these days.

  
“Alduin is the World-Eater of prophecy, and the Wheel is turning. The dragons’ return is a sign of the End of Days, when Alduin will devour all things and the world _will_ end, if you do not act to stop him.”

  
“ _It._ ”

  
“-Irowe.”

  
“-Esbern, they’re not going up the biggest mountain in all creation in the height of _winter_.” Delphine sighed in exasperation. “By the Nine, have more sense than that.”

  
Esbern scowled over at her, his beard bunching up. “Prophecy does not wait for _good weather_.”

  
“We’ll go as soon as we can.” Irowe said quickly. Amuril raised his eyebrows. So when it was an even fight again she didn’t want to discuss it? Typical. Irowe glared over at him, reading his face as well as if she’d read his mind. Oh, she still wanted to discuss it: she was just waiting until they were alone. “If that’s all?”

  
Esbern began and ended a half dozen sentences before nodding. Irowe nodded and turned away, walking down the steps to the entrance. Amuril frowned.

  
“Er, Irowe. We may still need their help.” Amuril pinched her sleeve and pulled her aside to the long table, speaking in Altmeris. No sense telling the Blades about Melucar when they couldn’t do anything about it. Especially if Irowe vetoed his idea.

  
“They could watch Melucar, while we did the...” Irowe stared at him and tilted her head. “Mountain climbing and dragon...” She tilted her head further, sticking out her lip like she was mad. “-fighting- Will you stop doing that? Talk like a normal person.”

  
“ _She_ speaks Altmeris.” Irowe pointed an accusing finger in Delphine’s direction.

  
The Breton colored and cleared her throat. Amuril coughed. Well they still didn’t know who Melucar was, but still. One of them could have told him that before he started having a private conversation.

  
“This is why I tell you to learn Yokudan-”

  
“ _Nobody_ speaks Yokudan.”

  
“That’s what makes it perfect-!”

  
“We already know about your son.” Delphine said, loud enough to be heard. They both looked to her and she shrugged. “I’m assuming that’s who you’re talking about. We couldn’t go with you to bring him from the Isles, but if you brought him to Skyrim we would keep him safe.”

  
Esbern immediately spun and stared flabbergasted at Delphine, pointing at Irowe. “ _She_ should not return to the Dominion- under **_any_** _circumstances_.”

  
“Oh they can all rot for all I care.” Irowe spat. “I won’t set foot there ever again.”

  
“Neither of us has any intention of staying in the Isles any longer than necessary to retrieve Melucar. Perhaps some...” Amuril looked over to Irowe, “paperwork, from the Treasury, but I can’t imagine that would take longer than a day at most.”

  
“Esbern, I know it’s not ideal but I trust they can handle their own affairs.” Delphine said, putting a hand in front of his chest to cut off further argument.

  
Irowe tugged at her gloves and wiped her nose. “Look: it’s getting dark. We should leave, if we’re done here.”

  
“Of course.” Amuril said.

  
Irowe nodded. She tugged her gloves on and wiped her nose. “It’s getting dark. We should leave, if we’re done here.”

  
Esbern stepped away from Delphine’s hand as she dropped it, hurrying after Irowe. “Aah- Forgive me, Dragonborn. I’m curious if - for the sake of history - you know the names of the dragons you’ve devoured? I have a list of burial sites and-”

  
“Qonahmir, red dragon, just south of Ivarstead, former right-wing to Vulthurkrin, thur of Atmora of Old.” Esbern snatched up his charcoal stub and scribbled the names down. Amuril’s eyebrow rose. Qonahmir was from Atmora? No wonder the dragon was arrogant as a Daedric Prince. “Vuljotnaak, white, fond of frost Shouts, the tri-hold fork. And Mirgrahviing, the one you shot out of the sky.” Irowe ended drily.

  
“Vul... jot... naak...” Esbern muttered.

  
Delphine walked with them to the end of the table near the entrance. She fidgeted with her hands, barely avoiding a raining skylight. Amuril focused on their new agenda: they had to return to the Greybeards as soon as possible in Rain’s Hand. Arngeir might know the Shout. The monastery was oddly devoid of dragons, save when Qonahmir hunted Irowe to its doors.

  
They met Delphine at the top of the stairs down to the entrance, but she stayed quiet. Amuril sighed and looked up at the grey and pale-blue clouds. This would not be enjoyable...

  
“Stendarr protect you.” Delphine said at last.

  
Amuril blinked. Was she... Was _that_ what she was fretting over? Whether or not to say Talos? Yes he was born in the Isles, but in the days when it was still part of Uriel VII’s Empire, and he’d spent the majority of his life in Hammerfell.

  
“Talos guide you.” He replied.

  
Delphine stopped and looked back, the hint of a smile on her face.

  
“Oh, like _he_ knows anything.” Irowe sulked. “He didn’t even have _dragons_.”

  
She huffed and stomped down the stairs - which were surprisingly dry. The channels must have diverted away from it down steeper inclines. Truly a marvel of engineering. Nothing compared to the Dwemer of course, but still impressive.

  
And of course Irowe was wrong. Tiber Septim did have dragons, he just didn’t _eat_ them like she was prone to. Of course she’d know that if she bothered studying history.

  
“Nafaalilargus-”

  
“That simpering little _worm_ all but hopped into bed with mortals and look where it wound up! _Dead!_ Serves it right.”

  
Amuril slowed, watching her continue to stomp down the stairs, the smile growing on his face. “Well they can’t all be giant red monsters like the ones you’ve eaten.”

  
“Of course not. Red dragons are purposefully rare. There’s only been three of them in existence: one for each continent. You see-” She huffed and walked along the edge of the entrance, as much out of the rain as possible. “Dragons _grow_ according to power. Alduin can’t be everywhere at once - that’s just silly - so there were dragons put in place to rule the continents and they answered only to Alduin. Well, ‘rule’. They mostly just shouted how _great_ they were off mountain tops and ate whatever they wanted. Shiny boxes of gold didn’t help their oversized egos either.”

  
“So these Red Dragons were put in charge of the continents?” Amuril asked. They were nearly out of the caves now: the rain was getting louder again.

  
“Oh no! They were the Mythic Dragons’ personal bodyguards, in a way. Well, it translates to mythic, roughly.”

  
“Like Jarls and Housecarls?”

  
“Is that a Nordic thing? Then yes. They probably stole it from the dragons.”

  
Irowe plodded down the ramp to the dapple grey, untying its reins and climbing into the saddle. She guided the horse over to the ramp so Amuril could mount easier. She stopped when she saw his face.

  
“Why are you smiling? What’s so funny?”

  
Amuril shook his head. “I am smiling at _you_ , because I love you.” He leaned down, kissed her, then gingerly climbed into the saddle. “Please continue.”

  
Irowe smirked and pulled up her facemask, speaking louder as they stepped out into the rain so he could hear her. She continued talking - ranting, more like - as they followed the floating bridges and a muddy path to a stone bridge. From there they rode up the road toward Old Hroldan, and they’d cut through the bluffs again toward Whiterun and hopefully stay out of sight of the Forsworn.

  
A dragon circled, off in the distance, but while Irowe tracked it she stayed away from it, her hunger sated for the day. Amuril breathed a sigh of relief. The dragons - like everything else - could wait until Rain’s Hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand with this chapter done, that's the last we'll see of the Blades for Portents. Which means I can finally finish writing the chapter where they show up in Omens. Yay!


	15. Sky Above, Voice Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Chapter! Merry Christmas!

> _"I often think about High Hrothgar. It's very... disconnected from the troubles down here. But that's why I couldn't stay, and why I couldn't go back.”_
> 
> _\-- Ulfric Stormcloak_

* * *

RAIN’S HAND was, for Irowe, not soon enough. She wore Amuril down, oddly enough, by not mentioning it. She asked once when they were assigned to Eastmarch - Ivarstead was just a short hike away from the hot springs - and didn’t bring it up again. It was the quiet that got to him and he finally caved the day after his birthday, but only to visit the Greybeards and ask about the Shout. When even Fallon was starting to crack, it was easier to just give her what she wanted. With supervision, of course.

  
He almost wondered if her dragons taught her to use that tactic but thought better of it. Dragons weren’t that smart.

  
They approached the Steps from the south, beginning the climb in the hours before dawn when they wouldn’t be noticed. It was nearly midday when they reached High Hrothgar, and a few minutes wearily (and warily) searching the monastery. Arngeir was the first they found, meditating in the courtyard. A light snow fell from the clear skies, but there was only a faint breeze on the mountain.

  
“Master Arngeir?”

  
He remained seated with his hands folded in his lap for some time. At last he exhaled and stood, brushing snow off his knees. Arngeir did not so much glare as stared with disdain at Amuril and Fallon. Amuril’s mouth twitched. Was he upset that they were mer, that they were simply disturbing his meditation, or because they were ‘interfering’ with Irowe’s Voice training? Either way, Amuril couldn’t help any of those reasons.

  
Irowe produced the horn from her bag; Arngeir inhaled and took it from her carefully.

  
“Well done. You have now passed all the trials.”

  
“-I have a question.” Irowe said as she tightened her grip on the ancient artifact, her tone as warm as the wind.

  
“ _Irowe..._ ” Amuril muttered into his facemask before biting his lip. Reason dictated that they avoid offending the monks before they had taught Irowe the Shout she needed. Of course ‘reason’ and ‘Irowe’ rarely belonged in the same sentence.

  
“I was inside that tomb: I know no one had been in there before me. So why did you ask me to find it?” Irowe asked pointedly. Arngeir held a long breath and Irowe's gaze before answering.

  
“Because in the absence of meditation and training at High Hrothgar, the best we can offer you is experience.” Arngeir held his hand out for the horn but did not try to force it from her. “You are not the first dragonborn to be tasked with the horn’s retrieval. You _are_ the first to succeed in retrieving it.”

  
That satisfied Irowe, and she released her grip on the dragon’s horn. It disappeared inside the Greybeard’s voluminous sleeves and he folded his hands inside the grey leather as well.

  
“Come. Master Borri will teach you the final word of Unrelenting Force. Then we will formally recognize you as dragonborn. Your...” He paused at the landing before the door and inclined his head to the two mer accompanying her. “ _Friends_ , may wish to wait outside. They could be killed when we Speak.”

  
With that he went inside. Irowe turned to Amuril. The knit mask concealed everything save his eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

  
Irowe yanked her scarf off her neck and rolled it up so it would fit in her pocket. “Amuril. It is a _ceremony_. You can come in when they're done Shouting. Besides, you'll probably still hear them out here.”

  
“He just said it could kill us and you want to go in there alone?” Amuril pointed at the monastery. A stone fortress where even whispers echoed and these Greybeards wanted to Shout _at_ her.

  
“It isn't going to hurt me. It's _you_ I'm worried about.” She said, poking her gloved finger into his chest. Her eyes softened and she leaned in closer. “Please trust me.”

  
He wanted to. He wanted to believe Irowe knew what she was doing. Despite what she'd said she had to do, the worry that had knotted in his stomach since Sky Haven Temple, he did believe that Irowe had a chance at stopping this dragon crisis...

  
So he supposed he did trust her.

  
“We will... wait outside.” Amuril relented.

  
Irowe hugged him and brushed snow off his back. “I will come get you when we're done.”

  
With that, she followed Arngeir into the fort. Amuril sighed and glanced around, wiping snowflakes from his eyelashes. The barren landscape didn't hold his attention long, and he gazed at the door again. Fallon pulled his hood down and exhaled, his breath crystalizing at the high altitude.

  
“She can use the Ghost Shout thing if it does hurt her, and unlike _some people_ they haven't tried to kill her.”

  
“ _Yet._ ” Amuril said darkly.

  
The Greybeards, from what little he’d seen of them and how Irowe spoke of them, openly disliked her. _Why_ he couldn’t understand. Yes, she was an Altmer, and they were Nords. Yes, they were teachers and she was nigh unteachable unless it pertained to destroying things. Yes, they were elderly persons, and she was an excitable oversized toddler, especially with the dragons putting ideas in her head. Yes, she constantly put off what they told her to do until it suited her-

  
Amuril relented that maybe they had several reasons for disliking her.

  
Fallon sighed. “I'm just saying you have nothing to worry about.” He dusted the falling snow off his shoulders.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ” The words echoed from every slit window in the monastery as the ground shook.

  
“Besides: they try anything she'll Shout them into a wall.” Fallon said, gesturing toward the door.

  
Amuril peered down at him. “You'll understand when you're married.”

  
Fallon didn’t answer, at least not verbally. The slow blink and slow tweak of a thin smile was answer enough. Amuril knew the ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m never getting married’ face well: he’d worn it for twenty decades, before Irowe proposed to save his life. Fallon never talked about his plans past Rain’s Hand, never talked about his past in Valenwood or past employments, or his family in Valenwood. Amuril wasn’t even certain he still _had_ family.

  
Amuril sighed and studied the austere courtyard. He just wished the mer would _talk_ with them openly, but he knew pushing him wasn’t the answer. This close to Rain’s Hand, he doubted Fallon ever would. He probably liked the idea of passing through their lives, trying (and failing) to teach them how to cook, then disappearing without a trace. He was never going to understand Bosmer...

  
He turned his attention to the greater courtyard, since they would be outside for however long the ceremony was. There was a tower overlooking the north and east of Skyrim, below it a firepit and flight of stairs leading to an archway facing southeast. Everything else was snow and mountain. Just past the archway the winds scoured the mountain, offering no glimpse of any path beyond.

  
Amuril stared at the storm wall, then to the comparatively calm breeze surrounding the monastery. It wasn’t impossible that High Hrothgar was magically shielded from the worst of the mountain’s winds, but he found it odd that only this corner of the mountain suffered from such weather. The Steps had been relatively peaceful, this looked almost like...

  
He walked up to the archway and looked around. The arch was built into the mountain: its right pillar was still attached to the rock and its left side plunged off the mountain’s edge, leaving it the only path to the peak. Amuril stepped into the archway-

  
A sudden wave of biting pain made him cry out and withdraw, back to the safety of the calm courtyard. He stared at the winds, and cautiously inserted his arm into it. The storm struck again, a nip rather than a bite. He jerked his hand back and rubbed his knuckles.

  
Magic; a specific kind of ward that sapped magicka. Amuril ran a healing spell over his arm, noting how tired and stiff it felt. Magicka... and vigor. Amuril stared up at the tall arch, blinking snow out of his eyes, then at the peak. What was up there that required such shielding?

  
The ground started shaking and the arch no longer held his attention. He headed back to the fortress. Fallon was sitting on the porch steps and nervously watching powder shake itself loose from the stones, pots and pans in his pack rattling together. Amuril walked past him and put his ear to one of the doors, trying to pick out words.

  
'Thu’umu' and 'Dovahkiin' he understood to mean the Voice or Shouting, and Dragonborn of course. 'Shor' was the mer-killing head of the ancient Nordic Pantheon, and a popular stand in these days for Talos. 'Atmora', the dead northern continent all Nords originally hailed from. 'Ysmir', a title shared by several Nordic demi-gods and kings.

  
The irony of invoking the most Nordic of Nordic concepts for an Altmeri Dragonborn was not lost on him.

  
The rumbling quieted and finally stopped. Fallon sighed and stood up, brushing wet snow off his legs. The door opened, scraping snow from its path. It was not Irowe that had opened it however, but one of the Greybeards. The Nord's beard was short and grey, so Amuril guessed it wasn't Master Arngeir or the youngest. The Greybeard bowed to them before making his way to the tower to meditate.

  
Amuril and Fallon slipped inside High Hrothgar, seeing Irowe standing - in one piece - in the lit diamond center of the hall. She had pulled her hood down and her red hair messily framed the angry scars on her face. Arngeir turned and looked up the stairs at the two mer. Irowe saw them and beamed the grin of a preening cat. Never a good sign.

  
“So you just missed my deification ceremony. Sorry about that. I would’ve insisted if I’d known-”

  
“ _What?_ ” Fallon stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her, then up at Amuril. “She- she’s not serious, is she?”

  
“Of course not. That’s not how mantling _works_ , Irowe. Deification of _what?_ ”

  
She grinned and lifted her chin. “I am Ysmir, the Dragon of the North.”

  
“That’s not a _god_ , Irowe.” Amuril stated flatly. “It’s a title, an _honorific_ given to great Nordic heroes in the Merethic and First Eras.”

  
Honestly, that she knew so little of Nordic culture - and respected even less - was insulting. Amuril knew about as much as she did but he didn’t go conflating ancient deities with another unless he had written proof.

  
“Perhaps you’re more familiar with my other title, _Strundu’ul_? The Stormcrown.”

  
He stopped and stared at her. From what he knew of the Dragon Tongue, ‘strun’ translated to ‘storm’, so he had no reason to doubt her. Tiber Septim was granted the title for his use of the Thu’um, it might even have been by the Greybeards but Amuril wasn’t certain. It didn’t change facts.

  
“Irowe, you’re not Talos.”

  
“What are you going to do, Amuril? Arrest me?” She mocked drily.

  
Amuril crossed his arms and snorted. “As soon as they build a prison that can hold your ego, young lady, _yes_ : I will consider arresting you.” She had _no_ idea what she was dealing with, or perhaps she did, and that was even more terrifying. Stars help her if she ran around Skyrim shouting that she was Talos just because she shared a title with the man-turned-deity. The Nords would _murder_ her.

  
Irowe harrumphed and turned back the Greybeard in front of her. “Aah- Arngeir, I um... I need your help with a Shout.” She swallowed and flexed her fingers at her side. “I remember there was a Shout the old Tongues used, to defeat Alduin, but none of my dragons know the Words. Have you heard of it?”

  
The monk stiffened and slowly straightened to his full height, a few inches shorter than the Malciors. Amuril swore the room darkened slightly. He looked at the skylight and wondered if a cloud had passed under the sun.

  
“Dragonrend.” Arngeir said, his voice rumbling deep enough to shake some powder down from the skylight.

  
“You know it?”

  
“I know _of_ it, Dragonborn. I also know your dragons would willingly speak of unless someone _told_ you where to look. Who told you of Dragonrend?” He asked, his words suddenly quick and demanding. Amuril hurried down the stairs to stand next to his wife. Fallon leaned against the stair's stone divider.

  
“A Blade.” Irowe answered quietly. “There was this rock mural thing with Alduin on it, and three Tongues Shouting it from the sky.”

  
Arngeir clenched his jaw and his fist but said nothing. Amuril wondered how the monk knew of the spies. The Greybeards were oblivious to everything else, even the civil war that ravaged the land below. Arngeir shook his head and withdrew into the northern wing of the fort, Irowe trailing after him. Amuril followed her and Fallon reluctantly fell in behind them.

  
“I wish you would not deal with them. Like the Tongues of old, they are too blinded by their hatred of dragons to consider what is the right path.” Arngeir said.

  
Amuril wondered at that: he wasn't aware of any connection between the Blades and dragons. Although... that would explain why the emissaries had rededicated efforts to locating the few they knew about. And why they were so concerned at the thought of Delphine being the Dragonborn. A Dragonborn that actually understood their destiny and had no qualms about fulfilling it would be a frightening thing indeed.

  
Irowe sighed and looked to the vaulted ceiling. “Master Arngeir, please trust me, I only need the Shout if I'm to defeat Alduin. That’s all they’re helping me with-”

  
“The Blades told you that?” He scoffed without turning.

  
They entered a smaller chamber off the wing's main hall, a long bedroom for four, sparsely decorated with amenities. The masters' sleeping quarters, it would seem, as the other bedroom was located in the south wing past a council chamber. Irowe slowed her pace, tilting her head to the side and blinking.

  
“I doubt they’d lie, but yes, they did tell me that. They’ve helped me this far with reasonable good intentions.”

  
“I do not know that they lied. But Dragonrend was used before, and Alduin is not dead. Have you considered...” Arngeir grunted and settled into a stone chair. “That Alduin is not _meant_ to be defeated? The Tongues only postponed the day of reckoning until now.” He sighed and pulled a book into his lap from the endtable, running his hands over the weathered spine.

  
“You're just going to sit there and let the world end around us?” Fallon asked, his fists clenched and his arms shaking. Amuril coughed politely and laid a hand on the Bosmer's shoulder.

  
Arngeir turned his attention to Fallon. “If the world is meant to end, then so be it. Let it end in fire and be reborn.”

  
“ _No_.”

  
Irowe’s voice deep and inhuman, rumbling through the mountain. The light from the windows darkened sharply, and Amuril couldn't excuse it as a cloud this time. He looked over at his wife, concern starting to grow in his veins. ‘No’ wasn’t Dragon for anything, that he knew of. Her Voice had never crossed over to her usual speech before. Either she was so upset her emotions bled into the raw power of the Voice, or... or something said during that ceremony changed her.

  
Irowe leaned down, putting her hands on the arms of his chair and bending over the elderly monk. Amuril was suddenly very afraid for the man’s safety, even if he was a Tongue.

  
“I'm not going to let it end. And if you don't like that-” Irowe leaned in until she was underneath the master monk's grey hood. “ _Then I don't need your help_.” She hissed.

  
The monk and Irowe stared at each other for a moment before Irowe broke contact, storming off up the five stairs to the wing's hallway.

  
“Irowe-” Amuril called after her.

  
“ _I will find my own way!_ ” She shouted back, her voice shaking loose dust from the ceiling. Amuril spared a glance for the monk, who seemed to accept Irowe's decision, before taking off after her. Stars, she couldn’t-

  
Blocking the end of the hallway stood one of the Greybeards.

  
“ _Dovahkiin._ ” He whispered hoarsely, his Voice still making the monastery tremble.

  
“Out of my way!” Irowe yelled, waving her arm like she would hit him with it if he didn't comply, and Amuril was very worried that she _would_. He’d never seen her this mad, not even when her father tried to take Melucar from them as a baby.

  
“ _Tinvaak... Paarthurnax._ ” The monk said as Irowe was two strides from him.

  
Irowe froze.

  
“Einarth!” Arngeir shouted from behind them. Amuril looked back at him. He was standing by the door to their sleeping quarters, holding the doorframe like he had forgotten how to walk. His eyes were wide, and his face had the pallor of someone who had been deeply betrayed.

  
An ear-splitting crack boomed up the hallway. A litany of angry Dragon rolled over them like a tidal wave, rocking High Hrothgar, toppling Amuril and Fallon, darkening the sun, and driving Arngeir and this Einarth to their knees. Amuril gasped and plugged his ears, barely making out Fallon doing the same. It didn’t help. His teeth were rattling so hard he was sure he would lose some of them by the end of this, and the Shouting only got louder.

  
“She is not ready!” Arngeir yelled at the other Greybeard.

  
“Rek los Dovahkiin,” Einarth answered, his voice intensifying the rumble of the mountain. “Strundu'ul-”

  
“ _I will not let her stray from the path like all the Dragonborn before her!_ ” Arngeir shouted, the Thu’um creeping into his voice, but he was drowned out by Irowe.

  
The noise was deafening and Amuril was starting to feel physically ill. He wrapped his arms around Fallon, hoping that he could muffle the sounds or at least protect him from any falling rocks.

  
This was what Arngeir had warned them about: the unbridled Voice of legend. Perhaps the Greybeards and Irowe could Shout at each other without injury, but Amuril was suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he and Fallon were. How fragile.

  
The Shouting abruptly stopped, just as quickly as it had started. His ears were ringing louder than a bell tower. The fortress settled, the only sound was debris hitting the floor. Light streamed in from the windows once more; clear, unadulterated sunlight. Amuril looked up, squinting through the dust at Irowe. She bowed her head and exhaled. Amuril couldn't tell if it was frost or steam in her breath.

  
“That... is not your decision, Master Arngeir.” She said finally, looking up. “I _will_ speak with Paarthurnax.”

  
Arngeir folded his hands into his robes and began the slow walk up the hallway. “Dragonborn. You still have much to learn, about the Way, dragons, and yourself. _That_ is why we wait before telling you such things. Not because we enjoy keeping secrets from you.”

  
Amuril coughed and helped Fallon to his feet, dusting Fallon off as the young Bosmer did the same for him. His ears were still ringing, and he suspected they would for some time, but he _could_ tell it was quiet now.

  
Arngeir shook his head. “But now thanks to these Blades, you have questions only Paarthurnax can answer.” Arngeir stared up to the ceiling, or rather the Throat's peak beyond it; he closed his eyes and sighed. “I ask that you promise-”

  
“I will swear no such thing.” Irowe said sharply, cutting off whatever oath the monk would have her say. She stepped closer to the Nord, staring him down. “ _Mu los dovah._ ”

  
Her voice softened of its own accord and she stepped within arm's reach of the man, holding her hands by her stomach with the palms up. “However, Master Arngeir, it is not in my best interest to kill it.”

  
“I suppose that will have to be enough.” Arngeir muttered, staring past her to the Greybeard in the archway. “But you and Master Einarth are right: the decision of whether or not to help you is not mine to make.”

  
Einarth nodded before returning to the courtyard. Amuril sighed. Arngeir gathered the folds of his sleeves in his palms before releasing them with an exasperated sigh.

  
“Come. You will need a Shout to reach the peak. I presume these two are going with you?”

  
“Amuril is at least.” Irowe said with a nod.

  
“Is anyone going to explain what just happened? Why did you all start _shouting_ at each other?” Fallon exclaimed as Arngeir walked past.

  
“Irowe. What is going on?” Amuril asked quietly.

  
Irowe looked to him, then to Arngeir. She slipped her hands behind her back before answering.

  
“We're going to the peak. There is a dragon up there that might help me.”

  
“ _A dragon?!_ ” Fallon blurted out.

  
“There's a dragon at the top of this mountain?” Amuril said in shock.

  
Irowe seemed confused that they hadn't realized this before. “It is the highest summit in Tamriel, perhaps the world. _Of course_ there is a dragon on top of it.”

  
“And you think it _won't_ take your head off?” He asked pointedly. Every other dragon had, to his knowledge at least, only spoken to taunt her. They weren't the sort of beings one invited over for tea.

  
“It was Paarthurnax that summoned you to High Hrothgar.” Arngeir replied, opening the door to the courtyard.

  
Amuril thought back to the fight at the lake, when Irowe absorbed the dragon's soul the first time. The sky-shattering Shout was... from another dragon? He shivered. He'd always assumed it was the Greybeards who summoned her.

  
“Yes, and that's all it did.” Irowe noted sourly.

  
_That_ irked Arngeir, but not enough to use his Voice. “Grandmaster Paarthurnax has done more to help mankind than any jarl, king, or emperor. Kynareth may have given mortals the _ability_ to Shout, but it was Paarthurnax who taught us how. He turned the tide in the Dragon War, when Alduin was last defeated.”

  
Irowe rolled her eyes but did not correct the Nord.

  
“'Grandmaster'?” Amuril asked, dreading the answer.

  
“He is the head of our order. It is a _great_ privilege to be allowed to see him. Paarthurnax rarely allows visitors, and never outsiders.” Arngeir said pointedly, referring to the two mer.

  
They... served a _dragon_? A powerful, _rogue_ dragon. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but his stomach settled on 'upset'.

  
“So... he's a ‘good’... dragon?” Fallon asked cautiously.

  
“Yes.” Arngeir answered. That was perhaps the first time Amuril had heard the younger male sound _pleased_.

  
“ _No._ There is no such thing.” Irowe stated darkly.

  
“Dragonborn-”

  
“ _You_ have much to learn about dragons.” Irowe said, wheeling on the aged monk. She turned back to Amuril and Fallon, a somber look in her orange eyes. “Paarthurnax is not Alduin's ally. That is as close to 'good' as dragons get.”

  
“'The enemy of my enemy'?” Fallon offered.

  
“Hopefully won't _eat us_.” Irowe muttered.

  
She pulled out her scarf and fastened it under her hood again. Fallon swallowed and pulled his hood back up, tucking stray red hair where the wind hopefully wouldn't reach.

  
Arngeir gathered his sleeves again and walked to the fire pit below the tower. Amuril realized now why the winds were so severe beyond the courtyard. The way to the dragon that lived at its peak. Knowing how strong a Voice could be though, he wondered... was that _really_ necessary?

  
Master Einarth opened the door to the tower and joined them around the firepit. Amuril turned and noticed with a start that the other two Nords were silently walking up the stairs behind them. They joined Einarth at the base of the tower while Arngeir walked around the fire ring. He Whispered a word to the ground. Amuril could barely detect a wave of magicka leaving the man's lips and hitting the stones. The ground cracked as glowing runes etched themselves into the ancient stones.

  
Irowe glanced over the first carving as Arngeir walked to his left, speaking another Word into the ground. They continued until three Words had been carved and observed, and Arngeir completed his circle to stand on the eastern side - the side closest to the archway and the path beyond. Irowe walked back to join him.

  
“Clear Skies will blow away the storm, but only for a time. Keep moving, stay focused; Kynareth willing, you will reach the summit. This is our last gift to you, Dragonborn. Use it wisely.” Arngeir said.

  
He finished with a bow. Golden tendrils of light and magic arced from his body to Irowe's. Amuril thought for a moment and decided that the monk was somehow sharing his knowledge with her, the way dragons did.

  
Wonderful. Another voice to add to her growing collection. He really didn't want to dwell on part of the old Nord having a place inside his wife's head.

  
The light faded and Irowe returned the bow. Then she stepped to the arch, to the storm wall, and stopped within arm's reach of it.

  
“ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ”

  
There was a crack of magic, and the winds dissipated. Beyond the archway was a deceptively serene 'path' that hugged the mountain: a trail of cairns leading around the mountain and out of sight. Amuril exhaled and adjusted his facemask, glancing at Magnus.

  
Reaching Ivarstead was out of the question, but they’d never planned on staying there overnight anyway: it was too risky, too open. Someone would notice three elves traveling together. Word would get back to Iachesar, and they couldn’t jeopardize his retirement or Irowe’s safety. They’d always planned on bedding at High Hrothgar. But if they hurried, and there wasn’t much trouble... they could maybe make it up and back to High Hrothgar before dark.


	16. Enemy of My Enemy

> _"Paarthurnax: the legendary lieutenant of Alduin in the Dragon War. He is now known to lair on the Throat of the World under the protection of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar."_

_\-- Brother Mathnan_

* * *

SNOW billowed around Irowe's cloak and robes as the debilitating mists faded. She adjusted her gloves so they were under her sleeves and looked back. The Greybeards were walking back to High Hrothgar, and Amuril and Fallon walked beside her. So Fallon was going with them then, not that he would be much use against a dragon in a fight.

  
_We are not going to kill it_ , Irowe reminded herself. Paarthurnax might be the only one who knew anything about this Dragonrend shout: she needed it alive and in a good enough mood to talk.

  
Qonahmir coiled itself into a sulking ball at the base of her neck. It wasn't that it hated Paarthurnax, quite the opposite. Qonahmir admired the audacity it took to not only defy Alduin and survive, but to set itself up as the head of its own cult. A cult that prohibited use of the Thu'um by the uninitiated, taking it far further than even the Dragon Cult of old had done. And to take Monahven, the Throat of the World as its personal mountain? _That_ was arrogance itself.

  
Irowe snorted. She’d never seen the Red Dragon _jealous_ before.

  
“Weapons ready.” Irowe called out as High Hrothgar disappeared behind the mountain. She stretched her fingers, testing how quickly she could call flames to her hand.

  
“I thought we _weren't_ going to kill the 'not-evil' dragon.” Fallon asked warily. He did lay hands on his elven dagger.

  
“Yes, but I want to make it there in one piece. Stars only knows what lives up here.”

  
“Uh, snow? Rocks?” Fallon offered, kicking a crusted layer of ice off a rock before walking over it-

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ” Irowe shouted suddenly at a blur of light brown that stepped out from the rocks ahead.

  
“Goats.” Fallon stated drily, watching the kicking, bleating animal fade into the clouds below.

  
Amuril stopped to glare at her, pointlessly Shouting a goat off the mountain. It wasn't pointless however: she hated those things. She swore, the last time she was here, she would kick the next goat she saw off the mountain. Shouting was just more efficient.

  
“I saw movement.” Irowe offered with a shrug of her shoulders.

  
Ahead, where the goat had come from, was an iced-over bridge over a crevasse. They crossed it one at a time. Irowe looked up at the sky as Amuril ventured across, noticing the bridge starting to sway. She could feel the winds starting to eat at her magicka and stamina. The storm was returning.

  
“ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ” She shouted again, and the gnawing went away.

  
Once Amuril was over, Fallon gingerly stepped across. “Snow. Rocks. Goats.” He continued as he rejoined them. “And a dragon at the top. At least we know what the dragon eats.”

  
“Ice wraiths.” Amuril added to the list.

  
“Maybe-”

  
“No, _Ice wraith_.” He pointed ahead.

  
Bobbing around at head height was the skeletal form of the elemental creature. Now that they were standing still she could hear it, the crackling hiss of magicka and scraping ice. Even if its icy simulacrum of a body couldn't actually eat them, it was still large enough to swallow any of them whole, imprisoning them inside jagged strength-sapping ice. The frost magicka of its body would do the rest.

  
Amuril quietly stepped in front of them, keeping to the mountain side of the trail. The ice wraith hadn't noticed them yet. He summoned a flame atronach and sent it on ahead to face the ice wraith.

  
When it spun and saw the atronach the ice wraith shrieked and snaked through the air towards the molten elemental. The atronach glided across the snow, shooting balls of fire at its polar opposite. The ice wraith screamed as its ice bones shattered and melted, still scurrying for the atronach.

  
The two elementals collided with a cloud of steam. The ice wraith swarmed over the atronach's lithe body, constricting and raking even as its body began evaporating. Something inside the atronach cracked.

  
Amuril ducked down behind the rocks and readied a firebolt. The atronach knelt down to the ground, the ice wraith hissing angrily and trying to bite its head off. The flame atronach stood up and spread its arms, exploding in a burst of light and heat. The ice wraith shrieked and what was left of its body thawed into a glowing ice-blue mass on the snow. It writhed for a few seconds before congealing, ash from the atronach falling upon the snow.

  
“I hate those things.” Amuril muttered with disgust as he walked around the glowing ice.

  
“Well there's probably a lot of them, so, keep your guard up...” Irowe said looking around.

  
Ice wraiths rarely hunted alone. Hopefully this one wasn't hunting, but that might be even worse if it had a lair nearby. They crept along the path, listening for the crackle of magical ice over the howl of the wind. They passed under an overhang of the mountain, and soon after the trail began the steep snaking climb up the mountain.

  
The snow in front of Irowe exploded as an ice wraith coalesced from the powder. She stumbled backwards and planted her feet.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The partially formed wraith flew back to a slab on the mountain and disintegrated. The rock behind it cracked.

  
“Nice.” Fallon said.

  
 “As long as those things are the only beasts up here.”

  
“Besides the goats.” Amuril reminded her sarcastically.

  
Her skin began prickling and Irowe Shouted the storm away again. She winced and rubbed at her throat. Irowe rarely noticed any aftereffects of shouting during the rush of battle, but using her Voice repeatedly - and so quickly - was starting to hurt. The rant at High Hrothgar was the easiest to blame. Not that it mattered: her throat would be sore tomorrow regardless.

  
They continued hiking up the switchbacks in the shade of the mountain. It was slow going and in the thin air they had to stop frequently to catch their breath. They had climbed up from Ivarstead that morning, and there was a limit to how much altitude their bodies could handle before they started slowing down.

  
“What else do you know about this Paarthurnax?” Amuril asked, sitting down on a boulder.

  
Irowe sat down beside him, shoveling snow into her waterskin. “You remember the mythic dragons I told you about?”

  
“The ones the Red Dragons serve?” He ran a weak flames spell over his own waterskin. Amuril stopped and looked to her. “Paarthurnax is a _Mythic dragon?_ ”

  
“The one for Skyrim - well, Tamriel - yes.” Irowe elaborated. She frowned and heated the snow in her waterskin until it was drinkable. “Paarthurnax was Alduin’s right wing, during the Dragon War, and the mastermind behind a few things that would make _my family_ squeamish.”

  
“If it was in charge of all Tamriel, why would Paarthurnax switch sides?” Amuril asked.

  
Irowe peered up at the sky and shouted it clear again. She wasn't sure, and neither was Qonahmir. After Paarthurnax rebelled the dragons hadn't exactly tried talking to it, and those that did lost their lives. Arngeir seemed to think the dragon had had a change of heart, but there had to be another explanation.

  
“I think that's a question only Paarthurnax can answer.” Irowe said quietly.

  
She stood and stretched, waiting for the others to stand before continuing the hike. It was still early in the afternoon, but it would be best if they finished talking to Paarthurnax soon so they weren't climbing down in the dark.

  
“What happened to the dragons?” Fallon asked. He shook snow off his cloak before hurrying to catch up with the Malciors.

  
“Mankind learned dragons could be killed: the rest is history.” Irowe said with a shrug.

  
The dragons had kept mankind ignorant, making them believe they were impervious to mortal attacks as well as immortal. That deception died with the first rebel strike, and soon the dragons were dying faster than Alduin could raise them. None of her dragons survived the war, but they had heard the Thu’um of some that did. What a lonely existence that must have been, hiding away in the cracks of Nirn, praying that man didn’t find them and put them to the sword.

  
“Well they _were_ history until they started coming back to life...” Fallon muttered.

  
The winding path petered out on an outcrop due south of the peak. It was only a few hundred feet above, making it their last break before reaching Paarthurnax. Irowe leaned against a freezing rock and looked out over the land below.

  
To the east were the two lakes of the Rift and the numerous western waterfalls over the cliffs that separated it from Eastmarch. The northeast was dominated by Eastmarch's brimstone pools, with a lone peak in its middle, and the Winterhold range and Windhelm just barely in their line of sight. Far, far to the east past the Velothi Mountains she could make out Red Mountain, Morrowind's great smoking island and the tower of ash that rose from its center.

  
South down the tumbling slope was Helgen and the Jerall Mountains, but beyond that was Cyrodiil. Irowe looked for the White-Gold Tower of the Imperial Palace but it was either too far away or hidden behind the Jeralls. West, or what they could see of southwestern Skyrim, lay the pine forests of Falkreath and Lake Ilinalta. Beyond that the Druadachs and the Reach's craggy bluffs.

  
It was a breathtaking view. At times like this, she understood why Qonahmir and the others were heartbroken that she... that _they_ , would never fly again.

  
“You know, we're probably the first mer up here in... ever.” Fallon said softly. Amuril hemmed in agreement. Irowe nodded her head slowly, drinking in the view and trying not to cry.

  
“Just dragons and Nords, in the past. Unless there was an elven Greybeard.”

  
“I very much doubt that.” Amuril scoffed.

  
Fallon leaned back and stretched his legs. “I don't know... There's been elven Harbingers, hasn’t there? The uh- the Fighters Guild people.” Fallon said.

  
“I wonder what they thought of Wuuthrad...” Amuril murmured over the wind. Wuuthrad, (he had told her many, many times) was the cursed axe of Ysgramor, founder of the Companions. After an 'unprovoked' attack on the city of Saarthal the ancient Nord and his two sons fled back to Atmora, returning with an army to make the Snow Elves pay. It was said the battleaxe was made from Ysgramor's tears as they sailed back to Atmora, and it shared his thirst for elven blood.

  
Irowe scoffed. Thankfully it had long since been broken into several pieces, but the Nords - especially the Companions in Whiterun - revered it all the more. They wouldn’t even let them in to see it, no matter how nicely Amuril asked.

  
It was all superstitious nonsense, but that was to be expected from Nords. Although she would have said dragonborns were fanciful myths as well six months ago.

  
Irowe sighed and continued walking to the peak. The sooner she didn’t have to deal with Nords _ever again_ , the better.

  
They finally crested the last and largest plateau of the Throat. High Hrothgar could easily fit inside it. There was a half-toppled wall, like the one with the Ethereal Shout's word, on the northwestern edge. The mountain towered another hundred or so feet, but there was no path up its jagged rocks to the summit. Paarthurnax was nowhere to be seen.

  
A roar rang out. A large, grey dragon appeared from behind the peak and circled the mountain, peering down at the three mer and roaring again. Irowe kept an eye on it and walked to the word wall. She was nearly there when Paarthurnax roared one last time before beating its wings over a clearing by the wall. The dragon alighted as gently as possible for its weight, but Irowe stumbled all the same.

  
“ _Drem Yol Lok, wunduniikke_. I am Paarthurnax.”

  
Irowe glared at the dragon for nearly knocking her over. Of all the dragons she had seen, it was the only one with signs of age. Its wings were frayed and weathered; a few horns on its 'beard' missing their tips, most of its teeth were missing or worn; its black eyes clouded to a light grey. Her eyes narrowed as she noted its right horn was missing, about the same length as Jurgen Windcaller’s horn. So that was where it came from.

  
Dragons grew in size as they grew in power - that was why Vuljotnaak was so small and Alduin so big. While Paarthurnax had been the thur, ages ago, and an enormous dragon in its time, the Paarthurnax today was...

  
“You’re smaller than I remember.”

  
The dragon dipped its head as a repeating rumble grew in its chest; it was laughing. Irowe crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. Well, at least it had a sense of humor. Paarthurnax turned awkwardly, tilting its head as it peered at two frozen mer. It growled, or perhaps it was a purr.

  
“You are Dovahkiin. But who are these _joorre_ , these mortals?”

  
Irowe kept glowering at the aged dragon, but finally she walked over to where the two mer were standing. Amuril gave her a half-smile but kept his attention on the dragon. Fallon looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe: his brown skin was very pale and he was swaying. Irowe walked behind them.

  
“This is my husband.” She said, placing a hand on Amuril's shoulder. Paarthurnax nodded slightly, its grey eyes blinking slowly like it was cataloging every detail of her husband. Perhaps it was wondering what sort of mortal was lucky enough - or crazy enough - to marry the Dragonborn.

  
“And our friend.” Irowe added, putting her hand on Fallon's shoulder. The Bosmer fell back into her and just stood there, staring up at the dragon that was staring back at him. At least he was breathing now.

  
“Hmm... Greetings, _Dovahkiinro ahmul ahrk fahdon_.” It said, dipping its head to Amuril and Fallon respectively before gazing at Irowe. “Why do you disturb my meditation? What brings you to my _strunmah_... my mountain?”

  
“Dragonrend.” Irowe said.

  
Paarthurnax narrowed its eyes and pulled its head back. A puff of steam billowed from its nostrils and another growl grew in its chest. This time it was definitely a growl. It snorted.

  
“ _Drem_. Patience, Dovahkiin. There is tradition, when two of the dov meet for the first time.”

  
“By right, the elder speaks first.” She reminded it.

  
“ Vahzah...” Paarthurnax muttered, pleased that she knew the custom. Paarthurnax turned again and stalked over to the word wall, positioning itself a hundred feet away but directly in front of it.

  
Irowe had never bothered noticing how... _oddly_ dragons walked. Whenever she had dealt with a grounded dragon before it was usually charging at her. They only had two feet and had to make do with the elbow of their wings: it wasn't so much a _walk_ as a... waddle. She wiped at her nose to hide the grin on her face. Qonahmir and Vuljotnaak sulked at the thought they walked like water fowl.

  
The tradition was, to show respect, the two dragons would Shout at each other: give the other a taste of their Thu'um. However Irowe, being an Altmer, would not fare well against any of the orthodox Shouts like Fire or Ice Breath, or even Unrelenting Force. Thankfully Paarthurnax seemed keen on _not_ Shouting her off the mountain.

  
The rumble in Paarthurnax's chest grew louder as it started to use its Voice. The old dragon hung its head and looked over at her.

  
“Hear my Thu'um; _feel it_ , in your bones! Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!” Paarthurnax yelled, its voice growing. The grey dragon faced the word wall.

  
“ _Yol Toor Shul!_ ”

  
A river of fire poured from the dragon's mouth to the dilapidated stones until they glowed. Irowe could feel the waves of heat coming off of it from where she stood. It was several seconds before the fire stopped. Paarthurnax snapped its jaws closed and purred, pleased with itself.

  
When it turned to look to Irowe however, that toothy grin faltered. Her body was shaking and she was trying desperately not to cry. When she had fought Qonahmir, it had only breathed fire once, she had barely registered it over the panic of having a dragon on High Hrothgar's doorstep. The last time she had heard the Shout, truly heard it, was at Helgen. The last dragon she remembered breathing fire at her was Alduin, and she had nearly died.

  
She blinked and forced herself to breathe. Paarthurnax studied her face, her scared, scarred face, and seemed to understand. It almost looked... remorseful.

  
“ _Ofan_. A gift, Dovahkiin. Understand 'Fire' as the dov do.” Paarthurnax said, pressing its scaly forehead gently against hers.

  
Irowe bit her lip and nodded. She looked up at the wall, unsurprised to see the first Word for the Shout etched into its face.

  
Slowly she walked over to it, using the time to focus her thoughts. She had to face Alduin, the dragon that had scarred her face. It was her destiny. She had to kill it. She couldn't be cowering or freezing at the sound of dragonfire. She had to be strong, she had to fight.

  
Irowe ran her hand over the glyphs, watching it cool to a dark grey. She didn't turn when she heard the now familiar sound of Paarthurnax sharing 'Yol' with her. The faint breeze of magicka tussled her hair.

  
_You do not need the Old One’s help_... Qonahmir complained. Irowe smiled: she didn't doubt that. After their last meeting at the fork, Qonahmir had no love for Alduin.

  
Irowe planted her feet and faced Paarthurnax.

  
“ _Yol Toor Shul!_ ”

  
Fire streamed out of her mouth the full distance to Paarthurnax, splashing over its head and neck until its scales glowed. Inside Qonahmir screeched with delight. She had used the full Shout, not just the first Word that Paarthurnax had given her. As far as Qonahmir was concerned, that was proof that it had done the better job of helping her.

  
The fire died and Irowe closed her mouth, licking her lips nervously. At the trail's end, Amuril looked even paler than Fallon. She returned the half-smile he had given her. Hopefully he wouldn't be too averse to kissing her from now on, knowing that she could breathe fire.

  
Paarthurnax shook its head, the heat quickly dissipating from its now golden scales. Irowe swallowed. Hopefully the dragon wouldn't be too irate with her, for using the full Shout.

  
“ _Kaanro ven kog!_ ” It crowed. “The Dragonblood runs strong in you, and your mind is sharp! But... you did not come here to _tinvaak_ with an old dovah.”

  
Irowe smiled and glanced at the ground. It was different to talk to a dragon that, as Amuril had put it, 'wouldn't take her head off'. Being complimented by the former Thur was ego-stroking to say the least. However Paarthurnax was right: she was here on business.

  
“No. I came for Dragonrend.”

  
Paarthurnax nodded slowly. Irowe walked closer so the old dragon didn't have to shout to speak. Paarthurnax shook its head and snorted.

  
“ _Krosis_. It cannot be known to me.”

  
“Why not?” Irowe asked. Paarthurnax growled contemplatively before answering.

  
“Dragonrend is the first Thu'um created by your kind: joorre. Mortals. It is a weapon, against the immortal dov. _Wuth fahdonne_ said that it forced a dov to understand mortality, to experience it for a small eternity. We are the children of Akatosh: our _hadrimme_ , our minds... were never meant to know such things.”

  
“And these 'old friends' of yours didn't write it down anywhere?” Irowe asked, placing her hands on her hips. Paarthurnax shook its head again. “Of course...” Irowe muttered.

  
“Perhaps... you could learn it from them.” Paarthurnax offered.

  
Irowe stared at it. “That was _four eras ago_.” She didn't know of anyone - especially men - who could live that long. Well, unless they were vampires.

  
“Vahzah. Perhaps none but me now remember how _zeymah_ , my brother was defeated.” Paarthurnax murmured.

  
Irowe watched it. She hadn't thought that it considered Alduin its brother. All dragons were technically siblings, having neither sex nor being born, they simply... _were_. Few of them actually ascribed to that way of thinking though: it was harder to stomach devouring a soul of someone you were close to.

  
That must have complicated things, during the war. She wondered what could have happened to make Paarthurnax turn on its older sibling, but that was a question for another day.

  
“I was far from here, when Alduin fell, as all dov were. But all dov felt the wounding of time. The Tongues used Dragonrend to cripple Alduin, yes, but it was the _Kel_ \- the Elder Scroll - that banished Alduin from that time... and sent it here.”

  
A shiver ran down her spine at the mention of the Elder Scrolls. Elder Scrolls contained knowledge of every event: past, present and future. She had heard that they were artifacts from outside time - fragments of creation - and even those who were trained to read them went blind after doing so. She hadn't heard of an Elder Scroll being used for... time travel.

  
“I have watched the _Tiid-Ahraan_ , the Time-Wound, ever since. To guard against Alduin's return.”

  
Paarthurnax looked east, to a shimmer in the flurries on the plateau. Irowe swallowed and walked over to it. As she approached, she could feel a slight tremble in the air. She stepped into the shimmer; there was something wrong here, something very wrong.

  
Paarthurnax walked over until it was standing even with her, carefully avoiding contact with the Time-Wound.

  
“If you were to find that Kel, and bring it here, perhaps you could look through the Tiid-Ahraan, and learn the Shout from those who created it.”

  
“There are a lot of 'ifs' in that speculation.” Irowe muttered.

  
Paarthurnax laughed again. “There are no certainties; not with _Kelle_.”

  
Irowe sighed. The Empire once had a collection of Elder Scrolls in the Imperial Library, in the White-Gold Tower. However they all disappeared during the First War against the Empire twenty-seven years ago. Locating one - a very specific one - would be difficult if not impossible.

  
“Where would it be?” Irowe asked, hoping the dragon would have some clue as to its location, or the means of locating it. Paarthurnax shook its head.

  
“Dovahkiin, you would know better than I.”

  
“The Mages College.”

  
They both turned to look at Amuril, who had finally spoken up. He hugged his chest, looking very uncomfortable, and brushed snow off his shoulders.

  
“They might have it, or the means of finding it.” He elaborated.

  
Irowe nodded. The mages would be more capable than say, the Nords, or even the Blades or Arngeir - _not_ that she planned on involving that old cranky-pot further. He’d made his stance on the whole ‘not dying’ business quite clear.

  
“We will... see what we can do.” Irowe said, shaking her head. She would speak with Amuril about this later. Hopefully he had a plan for getting into the College of Winterhold, and an excuse for going there. Irowe looked over at Amuril and frowned. He was there, but where was-

  
“ _Fallon!_ What are you doing?” She yelled up at the Bosmer perched atop the very peak of the mountain. He yelled something back but it didn't carry on the wind. Irowe shook her head. “Get down before you break your neck!” She said, pointing to the ground.

  
Fallon understood that. He picked his way down, jumping from boulder to boulder until he reached the plateau. Paarthurnax rumbled again, shaking its head with a toothy grin. Fallon's eyes snapped to the grey dragon, never leaving him until he stood behind Amuril.

  
“There’s a pickaxe up there, near the top.” He said, smiling nervously at the two Altmer. Neither of them were particularly interested. “Shutting up...” He mumbled.

  
Irowe looked west. Magnus was not quite to the Druadachs but they would be walking down in the mountain's shadow. She wanted to be at High Hrothgar before dark more than she wanted answers to her questions. Perhaps she would never return to the Throat's peak to 'intrude on Paarthurnax's meditation', though she suspected the dragon would welcome another conversation. Despite her intent to never deal with dragons again, she was a little sad at the thought of leaving.

  
“ Lok, Thu’um.”

  
Irowe looked up at Paarthurnax and - to Qonahmir's disgruntlement - returned the parting gesture. “Su'um ahrk morah.”

  
That seemed to please Paarthurnax. It waited until they were heading down the mountain to lift off, alighting on the toppled part of the word wall. Irowe smiled, wondering if the wall was broken from continuous perching. She looked back one last time, before the mountain hid the wall from view. Paarthurnax met her gaze with a slight bow of its head.

  
Not a good dragon... but perhaps the closest there would ever be to one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Drem Yol Lok, wunduniikke: Peace Fire Sky (Good Day), travelers
>   * Dovahkiinro ahmul ahrk fahdon: Dragonborn's husband and friend
>   * Vahzah: Truth/True
>   * Kaanro ven kog: Kyne's wind blesses (you)
>   * tinvaak: talk
>   * Krosis: Sorrow/Apologies
>   * Wuth fadonne: (my) Old friends
>   * Lok, Thu'um: Sky (above), Voice (within)
>   * Su'um ahrk morah: Breath and focus
> 

> 
> ~~~  
> So Paarthurnax, if you look at him, IS missing a horn and it DOES look an AWFUL LOT like Jurgen Windcaller's horn. If you ask me that is totally where it comes from. :3
> 
> And Amuril/Fallon's names sounding similar to the Dragon for 'husband' and 'friend' is, if you will believe it, coincidence. They've had those names for 1 1/2 years before I wrote this part and realized it kinda worked, so I threw it in. (If you ask me, Fallon's relationship with them is closer to an adopted son so 'friend' doesn't exactly fit, but eh)
> 
> Aaand with that the first half of Portents (Dragon's Fire) is done! The next half (where stuff really starts to deviate from canon) should be up next week. Happy New Years!


	17. Premonitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ### Part Two: Mage's Eye

> _Magnus is the God of Magic and the Architect of Mundus._

* * *

 

MAGNUS shone blearily on the once-great city of Winterhold. The clouded light filtered onto the Mages College, on the ruins that hadn’t fallen into the sea, and on the few buildings that remained huddled against the Winterhold Mountains’ base for warmth. Eighty years ago, the city boasted a booming port and thriving economy. Then the Great Collapse happened.

  
These days, the Mages College was the only reason the 'city' still existed, though the local Nords would rather throw themselves off the glacial cliffs than admit it. Or be grateful for it.

  
The College itself was also weathered by the Great Collapse: what was once a peninsula was now an island, precariously perched on a petrified whirlwind rising out of the glaciers and the sea. The only way to reach it was a zigzagging series of stone bridges, none of which appeared to have been repaired since the natural disaster. And the only way to access the bridges was through an archway, tall enough for a dragon’s outstretched wings to fit between it.

  
The Malciors and Fallon dismounted and left their horses with a sallow youth at the inn. The main street was empty, even of guards, and as they approached the cliffs the lack of buildings gave a better view of the College.

  
Amuril’s stomach churned. The last mages college he had been to was Rhuusa Gau, in southern Hammerfell. He’d only spoken of what the Dominion army did there to one other mer - the one that saved his life. That mer insisted the best way to avenge his classmates, his students... Benji... was to take the Thalmor down from the inside.

  
Amuril wasn’t brave. He joined because he had no choice, being in a Dominion camp in a bloodied Dominion soldier’s uniform. He stayed in and joined the Thalmor because _someone_ needed to help people who’d been caught find some way out. He did everything he could to help others, to ease his conscience, but it never felt like enough. It was never going to be enough, not while he wore those purple robes.

  
Everyone else at Rhuusa Gau was dead and he was still alive, wearing the uniform of the people that killed them. He was here at _this_ college on Thalmor business, and he couldn’t get that acrid taste of disgust out of his mouth. At least, Winterhold being a Stormcloak hold, he was excused from wearing the uniform. He wouldn’t be able to stomach that.

  
Their orders from Emissary Elenwen were simple: Advisor Ancano routed his letters to Alinor through the Embassy. There had been no letters in three months. While the Advisor, rumored to report _directly_ to the Council, was outside the Ambassador’s jurisdiction, she did want to at least make an attempt to see that he was still alive, in case there was an inquest.

  
It was a short assignment - just to the College of Winterhold and back - but it was enough time for Irowe and Fallon to peruse the library for the Elder Scroll she needed. Where they were going to _hide_ an Elder Scroll he had no idea. He didn’t frankly care at this point: the sooner they were away from the College, the sooner he would recover from the revulsion in his stomach-

  
“Hold!” A woman’s voice rang out. From the archway's shadow stepped a red-haired Altmer: another Destruction Master, from the orange details of her grey robes. She circled them and gave her fellow Altmer a critical eye, noting their master and expert robes, and the green or gold shimmer of Alteration and Restoration. She stood blocking the bridge, staring down at Fallon and the leather armor underneath his cloak.

  
“What is your business with the College?”

  
Amuril closed his eyes and exhaled. “I am Master Amuril Malcior, this is my wife Irowe. We’re hoping someone or something in your library can help us find an artifact, and if possible a place to stay the night. May we come in?”

  
“I see.” She said, making no sign of moving. Irowe coughed and adjusted her cloak. “And this is..?” She pointed to Fallon.

  
“Fallon. Our cook and all around help.”

  
She blinked several times - a few he could attribute to the falling snow but he suspected the rest was at his statement. Amuril shifted his feet. He didn’t like the term ‘servant’. In Altmeri circles, especially in reference to ‘lower races’ a more apt translation would be ‘slave’. While High Kinlord Vicarian legally owned the young Bosmer and loaned him to the Malciors - one of the more despicable ways he kept a hold on them - _they_ paid Fallon for his services.

  
He was _not_ a servant and they did not treat him like one. In fact, if Amuril was being honest, they doted on him like he was their own child. A nephew at the very least.

  
“I see.” The master said slowly. “I apologize, but before I can allow you and your servant inside-” Amuril’s face twitched. “I must ask you to prove you have some magical talent. We have strict procedur- _aayyiii!_ ”

  
The mer’s face exploded in a ball of pale blue light that rippled across her face. She reached for her face, fingers spread like claws, then stopped. She blinked and pulled her hands down, staring at them with dilated eyes.

  
“Irowe-!”

  
“It’s just a Calm spell, Amuril. Is that proof enough?”

  
The mage was trying to be mad, he could see it in the twitches of her face, but the spell restrained her from doing anything more than a disapproving frown. She sighed and shook her head.

  
“Next time, cast on the _seal_.” She pointed to a round of iron in the floor, with a down-facing star and Eye of Magnus at its center. The master pulled a thick fur-rimmed hood up and turned to the first bridge to the College. “Very well, you may enter... Follow me.”

  
She led them out onto the bridges over the chasm, casting magelights at magicka wells in the piers. Irowe followed the woman; Fallon stayed put.

  
“Can- can’t I stay at the inn?” He asked, his voice small as he looked down at the drop. It was hundreds of feet down to the ocean channel and looking made _Amuril_ nauseated.

  
“I think it will be safer for you in here.” Amuril answered, patting Fallon’s shoulders. “I’ll catch you if you fall. Come on now.”

  
Fallon whimpered and leaned back into him, but took a few steps out on the iced-over stones. Amuril walked with him, keeping a hand on his shoulder as often as he could, and they joined the two women at the first pier for a moment before they walked ahead again.

  
“I thought the trees in Valenwood grew larger than this.” Amuril asked, to keep Fallon’s mind off the walk.

  
“They aren’t a straight drop to frozen water.” Fallon shivered. “An- and there’s hardly any wind with all the trees. And it’s wood, not stone.”

  
Amuril held his tongue and waited for Fallon to venture out again. He was just making things worse. Amuril had an idea and laid a hand on Fallon’s arm.

  
“Do you trust me?”

  
“Would I be out here if I didn’t?” Fallon whined.

  
Amuril nodded. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on a spell he hadn’t used in ages, from an old custom tome on Alteration. Amuril wove his arm in a circle, letting the purple-white magicka grow, and released it on Fallon.

  
“Levitation.” The Bosmer’s face lit up with curiosity. “It lasts for a minute, so we’ll need to hurry.”

  
Amuril took his hand and helped him across the next bridge, letting him test the spell’s strength. Fallon cautiously put a foot down over a gap, and was quite pleased with himself and the spell when he didn’t fall. Amuril smiled and held his hand, in case the spell wore off before the minute was up. He hadn’t cast it in a few years, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

  
“Why do I have to walk?” Fallon asked. “I mean... You’d think I could just _float_ wherever I wanted.”

  
Amuril smirked and wiped his nose. He asked the same question of his father, when he learned the spell.

  
“I’m sure whoever created the spell felt their students weren’t getting enough exercise.”

  
“Well that’s dumb...” Fallon muttered.

  
Thankfully they reached the college gates a few seconds before Fallon’s spell wore off. Amuril exhaled and adjusted his facemask to be tighter. He would go find the Advisor, distract him if necessary, and Irowe and Fallon would go to the library for the Elder Scroll. With luck they could be gone before dark.

  
The mage cast a spell at the gate's sigil of Magnus and the barred gates swung open. Inside was a circular courtyard covered with snow, dotted with a few pines, and a large well of magicka in the very center. Standing in front of the well was a statue of a mage with his arms raised, his long robes billowing behind him.

  
“Is that Shalidor?” Amuril asked.

  
The mage looked back, then to the statue. She shrugged her shoulders and nodded, looking around the courtyard for something, or someone.

  
Behind the statue was the College's tallest and main hall, a round stained glass window depicting Magnus on its top floor. Like most buildings in Skyrim the masonry was heavy, dreary and grey, and the lack of color was reflected in the college robes of the mages walking by.

  
Amuril looked around and saw that there were two smaller halls beside the main gate, forming a triangle with the main one. That appeared to be the extent of the campus. He frowned. It was smaller than he thought it would be.

  
The Altmer mage picked up her pace at the sight of a mouse-haired Breton with a notebook pacing behind the statue. Judging from her master robes, she was also faculty.

  
“Mirabelle? Mirabelle. This is Mirabelle Ervine, our Master-Wizard. These are the Masters Malcior and their-”

  
“Malcior?” She cut off the Altmer mage. “I'm sorry, is one of you named Amuril?”

  
Amuril and Irowe stared at each other. Amuril swallowed. They’d never been here before, not personally. Could the college mages have heard their name before? Or, slightly more likely, was this Mirabelle an associate of Delphine’s? But then... why was she asking for Amuril?

  
“I am Amuril. Why do you ask?” Amuril said slowly.

  
“There's a monk asking for you.”

  
Amuril frowned. A... monk? He didn’t know any monks- well, besides the Greybeards, but he doubted Arngeir would climb all the way down from the Throat and wait for them to show up here. He seemed far more likely to summon Irowe with a Shout and wait for her to arrive.

  
He didn’t _know_ any monks.

  
“Aah... where?” He could meet with this monk while Irowe and Fallon searched the library. Once he wasn’t being watched by the College mages, he could find the Advisor and get that out of the way.

  
“He’s waiting for you in the Arch-Mage’s Quarters. I will take you there.”

  
“Thank you. Uh- Irowe, you wanted to see the library?”

  
“Yes, of course.” Faralda nodded, her sour attitude beginning to return. “Come. I’ll give you a tour.”

  
Master Ervine escorted Amuril to the main hall, while Irowe and Fallon were shown to one of the secondary halls behind him. Amuril cleared his throat, unable to shake the feeling that he was being taken up to the Arch-Mage to be scolded, like he’d been so many times at Rhuusa Gau. In fairness though, most of those incidents were either entirely the fault of or at least provoked by Benji. He sobered and looked around, wondering what the young Redguard would have made of all this snow, if he had survived the war.

  
Amuril held the door for the Master-Wizard and followed her inside. Whatever thoughts he had of Benji faded away as his face fell at what lay inside.

  
The lecture hall was a circular one, ringed with pillars and tall windows, and again the Magnus' Eye sigil set into eight iron seals in the floor. In its center, over another magicka well, was a giant rotating orb, its diameter easily thrice the length of the tallest Altmer. It appeared to be made of malachite panes and ebony muntins, with glowing cursive glyphs etched into the dark ribbing. Then the light would shift, the polygonal panes would move like the sphere was breathing. Now it was clearly an opalescent glass, reminiscent of the ancient Crystal-Like-Law Tower back home in Alinor. Through the cracks as it breathed were glimpses of a barely contained core of pure magicka.

  
In all his years, Amuril had never seen anything like it.

  
“What is _that_?” Amuril whispered, unable to take his eyes off the rotating sphere.

  
Mirabelle hid a scowl behind her hand before coughing politely. “A relic, from Saarthal. The Arch-Mage's Quarters are this way.”

  
She nodded and walked to a door on their right, keeping her eyes on the orb. Amuril found his feet moving, but not to follow Mirabelle. Toward the orb.

  
It was radiating magicka, pure magicka. The closer he came the more it reminded him of walking into the Abecean Sea; warm waves washing over him, quietly smothering his other senses. Amuril swore he could almost hear words in the whispering of magicka.

  
He walked around the orb. The glyphs on the muntins glowed and changed, morphing into something else before flashing again. If he listened, he could almost hear his name, among others, in the whispers.

  
Mirabelle cleared her throat. He could see her in the corner of his eye standing by the main door. “Master Malcior?”

  
There was something else he was supposed to be doing. Something involving his name, but stars, it was hard to think this close to so much magicka...

  
A monk. Something about a monk.

  
“You said 'monk': can you be more specific?” Amuril asked. He was growing more and more concerned in the back of his mind, that he was so entranced by this object. This wasn't healthy, he had to break free.

  
“A member of the Psijic Order.”

  
The sound of a proper Alinor accent helped him finally break contact. Amuril turned around, dazed, his eyes resting on a white-haired Altmer in Thalmor robes. The mer did not look pleased.

  
“You _do_ know what that is, don’t you?”

  
Amuril paled. The Psijics were the oldest monastic and magic organization in existence, residing on the isle of Artaeum in the Summerset Isles. At least that was where it was supposed to be when it was visible, or on the same plane as the rest of Nirn or whatever it was the Psijics did to avoid visitors. No one really understood what the Psijics did, or what they were capable of, but no one had seen or heard from them since 98 of the Fourth Era. The Order held allegiance to no one, something that had placed them at odds with the Thalmor Council and the rest of the Dominion.

  
The first Psijic seen outside Artaeum in a hundred years, and they had asked for him by name.

  
“What is going on here?” Amuril asked shakily.

  
Ancano flashed a tight smile. “That is what I would like to find out. If you would be so kind?” He said, gesturing toward the stairwell left of the door.

  
Mirabelle glared at him and walked over, finally taking her eyes off the orb. “Ancano-”

  
“The Psijic Order is a dangerous organization, Master Ervine. I intend to find out what they're up to.”

  
“Your position is to _advise_ , not interfere.” She reminded him coolly.

  
Ancano's eyes narrowed but he nodded, conceding the point. “If it will ease your concerns, I will only listen. But the Psijic is waiting.” He said, locking eyes with Amuril.

  
Amuril swallowed and walked back up the short flight of stairs to the entryway, no longer sure what was going on. Ancano _looked_ to be unharmed in any way, so... why had he stopped writing? That would have to wait however, until he’d met with this Psijic Monk.

  
Amuril's stomach rolled. He was five weeks away from retiring, so they could deal with the dragon business. He was so close, he barely registered as someone worthy of the Emissaries’ interests, but a Psijic Monk - the first one seen outside Artaeum in over a century - would attract the wrong sort of attention.

  
_Someone_ would go over every incident in his life with a fine-toothed comb, to find whatever reason the Psijic had for contacting him. The only thing he could think of was his friend Voramir, who joined the order when they were boys. But he hadn’t seen Voramir since he left Artaeum, the day Voramir was accepted. He hadn’t even applied himself or garnered their interest, already having a scholarship to Celator.

  
He couldn’t shake the feeling that this had something to do with Irowe being the Dragonborn. The Psijics had a longer view of time and ‘now’ than most, and had little regard for ‘now’ when the future and past blurred together. If they revealed Irowe as the Last Dragonborn, in front of a college full of mages and a mer that reported directly to the Thalmor Council...

  
Things could end very badly.

  
Amuril glanced over at Ancano, somewhat surprised that the mer wasn’t at all what he was expecting. Being an ambassador of the Thalmor, he assumed the mer would be the quintessential Altmeri mage: shock-white hair that came with stronger than average magicka, pale-gold skin that barely saw sunlight, rare blue eyes of pure-bred nobility, and tall enough to require ducking through even Altmer doorways. He wasn’t expecting a short, yellow-eyed, bright-blond mer like himself; near enough to be _mistaken_ for himself.

  
The walk up the stairs was over quickly and Mirabelle opened the door to the top floor. Like the rest of the hall this floor was round, although the far wall was cordoned off - for sleeping quarters, he presumed. Bookshelves, enchanting tables, alchemy labs and potted alchemy plants all lined the walls with an enormous garden in the middle of the room. Mage lights lit the room as the sunlight from the windows was faint.

  
Standing beside the garden were two figures in grey robes. The one on the right was a darker, fur fringed leather robe that draped down to a point somewhere above the knees. The Arch-Mage, Amuril guessed. As they approached he saw it was a Dunmer underneath the cowl, with grey streaking his short black beard.

  
The figure standing directly in front of the garden wore a dark blue tunic, with a yellow-tinged grey cloak draped over it. Amuril recognized the grey leather sash, the silver buckle and neck clasp with lazurite stones, the aloof behavior of the mer wearing the robes. His stomach dropped.

  
The Psijic looked up and locked eyes with him. The room shimmered.

  
“Finally. We can speak in private.” The Psijic said.

  
Amuril looked around. They weren’t alone: Ancano, Mirabelle and the Arch-Mage were-

  
He paused. Mirabelle stood with her mouth about to speak, the Arch-Mage was turning to greet them, and Ancano was frozen mid-step. None of them moved. Amuril swallowed and refocused on the Psijic, careful to hold his stance as best he could remember it.

  
“Do I know you?”

  
“Quaranir, and this is our first meeting.” He held up his hands at Amuril's fountain of questions. “-Please, we don't have much time. The longer the artifact remains at your college the more dire this situation becomes. Unfortunately, the artifact has interfered with all previous attempts to contact you so- I felt a _personal_ approach was necessary.” He said, gesturing to himself.

  
Amuril nodded nervously. He wasn't going to argue with a mer that could freeze time. “The orb, downstairs?”

  
“Yes.” Quaranir nodded.

  
“What do you want done with it? Why me?” Amuril asked.

  
He couldn't imagine why a Psijic would seek a newcomer out rather than a member of the College. Surely they were better equipped to handle such things than a wizard who was only passing through.

  
Quaranir sighed in exasperation. “We can't _see_ , the artifact's aura-”

  
He stopped himself and inhaled, using a breathing technique Amuril recognized. A technique specifically designed to target the body's more emotional tendencies and silence them, returning a mer to a more placid state. He was upset then, that wasn't a good sign. Quaranir exhaled and refocused his green eyes on Amuril.

  
“I fear I'm overstepping the bounds of the Order by consulting you like this, but speak with the Augur of Dunlain in your college. He is less affected by the artifact than we are, his insight may be clearer. The others can instruct you further.”

  
“But _why **me**_?” Amuril questioned.

  
He didn't want to get the Altmer in trouble with his Order - they were known to commit suicide rather than act against their brethren - but none of this made sense. He was here on orders from the Thalmor. This was a Nordic Mages College. He had nothing to do with any of this. He and Irowe had to worry about the damned _dragons_ , not some orb the Nords found in a ruin. Surely that was more important?

  
Quaranir blinked, as if he had to explain why the sky was blue.

  
“You are the only one in a position to mitigate the aftermath. I'm afraid maintaining our privacy is taxing, even for one of the Order. We will be watching.”

  
“What aftermath? What can I-”

  
“Here is-”

  
Mirabelle paused and looked to Amuril. Amuril closed his mouth and glanced around. The other three mages were staring at him and he felt his cheeks growing hot. Mirabelle cleared her throat and turned to Quaranir, who barely seemed to register the awkward situation he'd put Amuril in.

  
“Here is the master you insisted on seeing.” Mirabelle finished.

  
“I see.” Quaranir said, feigning interest.

  
He moved forward and walked around Amuril, studying him. Amuril stood very still. As he started swaying Amuril used the breathing technique Quaranir had used. Inhale for three seconds, hold for eight, exhale for nine. When he breathed out he swore he caught a faint smile on the mer's face.

  
Quaranir stopped suddenly and grabbed Amuril's ear, pinching the nerve and making the shorter Altmer hiss. Amuril kept quiet: he remembered this from when Voramir did his trials. No one ever explained _why_ every Psijic did this, only that it was very, _very_ important to keep still until they released you. His ear had ached for two weeks when he wiggled free during Voramir’s examination.

  
Quaranir hummed and pulled his fingers away. Amuril resisted the urge to rub his ear: he was two hundred-eighteen, not eighteen.

  
“No. I apologize, there's been a misunderstanding.” Quaranir said at last, tucking his hands behind his back.

  
“You asked for him by name.” Mirabelle said, more confused than angry.

  
“And there's been a mistake.”

  
“I- I don't understand-” The Arch-Mage stammered.

  
“What game are you playing at, monk?” Ancano demanded sharply. Mirabelle glared at him, remembering his word to 'only listen'. Quaranir looked more amused than insulted.

  
“I am not 'playing' any 'games'.” He said, his voice calm and mildly concerned. Ancano's jaw tightened but he said nothing. Quaranir stopped and turned to face the short Altmer. “I apologize. I appear to have offended you.”

  
“That you have...” Ancano growled out from clenched teeth.

  
Quaranir raised an eyebrow. “A pity. Farewell.”

  
With that, the Psijic departed. Amuril wondered how on Nirn he had arrived in the first place. Like him the Order knew teleportation spells, but theirs was a deeper understanding that didn't require anchors. They could simply focus on a location and arrive. That was how he _assumed_ the mer had come here. He doubted Quaranir had come by boat.

  
“The first Psijic outside Artaeum in a hundred years, and he just... leaves?” The Arch-Mage wondered aloud.

  
“I don't understand it any more than you do, Savos.” Mirabelle sighed.

  
So... they hadn't noticed the time-freezing. That was fortunate. It would save him from having to explain, and further embarrassment.

  
Ancano rocked back on his heels, finally snapping his boots back to the ground. “It would appear this is all a _misunderstanding_ , nothing to concern us mortals with.” He said shaking his head.

  
The Advisor looked ready to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Amuril said nothing. The two Altmer caught each other's eye. There was something in the younger Altmer's eye then, a glimmer of recognition. He nodded curtly before turning back to Mirabelle.

  
“If you will excuse me.” Ancano said before he too left the Arch-Mage's Quarters.

  
Amuril watched him leave. He would have to find some way to meet with him later, secretly. Discuss why the correspondence to the Embassy had ceased without drawing attention to Irowe's efforts in the library-

  
“Master Malcior?”

  
“Yes. Yes, I'm sorry.” Amuril sighed and rubbed his face. This was supposed to be so simple. How hard was it to kill one dragon? Why was it every time they got closer to finishing this business with the dragons, something always came up?

  
“He spoke to you?” Mirabelle asked, her brown eyes brooking no argument. So she had noticed then.

  
“I- yes, just a... a few personal questions. He asked about the artifact downstairs, and seemed to think it was dangerous. He mentioned there would be some sort of aftermath, a crisis, that needed to be averted. And an Augur?”

  
“Did he now? Well that's interesting.” Savos mused. Mirabelle raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Amuril sighed and pinched the bridge his nose.

  
“I apologize. I've had a long journey and-”

  
“Yes, yes of course. Uh- Mirabelle?” Savos said, waving his hand dismissively.

  
Mirabelle bit her lip and exhaled. She muttered something to the Arch-Mage, he mumbled something in return. Mirabelle nodded and walked to the stairwell.

  
“There are a few vacant rooms available. I'll see about getting two of them ready.” She said, walking down the stairs with Amuril following behind.

  
Amuril glanced up at the door opposite their stairwell when they reached the main floor. Arcanaeum? His ears perked up: Irowe and Fallon should be inside and - with any luck - they would have the Elder Scroll. Thank the stars, perhaps they wouldn't spend too much time here at this college.

  
“Aah- excuse me. My wife should be in here-”

  
“Of course, I understand.” She waved her hand. “There should be quarters available in the Hall of Attainment. You can speak with the monitor there and she can show you the room.”

  
“Thank you, Master-Wizard.”

  
She continued down the stairs to the courtyard and Amuril stepped inside the library, smiling as he saw the walls of books. He could still feel a general sense of unease about being at a mages college again, but libraries were as close to ‘home’ as he could get when Irowe wasn’t around.


	18. Seers and Scrolls

> _The Psijics can connect with the minds of others, and converse miles apart - a skill that is sometimes called telepathy._

* * *

 

FARALDA, the mage from the gate, led Irowe and Fallon on a brief tour of the College starting with the students’ dormitory: the Hall of Attainment. Most of the people they met were students preoccupied with their upcoming midterms and the brief break soon after. The majority were Bretons and Imperials, although Irowe saw a handful of Redguards apprentices and a few Nords - even a Khajiit - on the tour.

  
A tour she _hadn’t_ asked for.

  
“... of course, the graduate mages sometimes stay on as scholars and adjunct faculty.” Faralda said as they reached the top floor of the Hall of Attainment. “We continue to support those who have an interest in bettering themselves and other mages with their research.”

  
Irowe looked around, noting that Fallon kept a relaxed hand near his dagger at all times. A preening Altmer narrowed her eyes at them and Faralda steered them away from her. There was a Bosmer who kicked something underneath his bed before glancing through a book: Irowe only caught the quick movement with the dragons’ help. A bleary-eyed Imperial man hastily gathered up a collection of scrolls and stowed them in a chest.

  
Everyone seemed on edge here, though only the students could excuse it as exam anxiety. It felt like everyone could sense an oncoming storm. Everyone except her. Not even the dragons could sense whatever source this unease came from: that unnerved her more than anything.

  
The blonde Altmer crept out of her room and Faralda ushered the two guests into the stairwell. Irowe looked around, wondering where Amuril was, how his meeting with this monk was going.

  
“So what’s the other hall for?”

  
“The Hall of Countenance is strictly reserved for faculty like myself.” Faralda replied as they returned to the ground floor.

  
A gust of winter air blew in as students chattered with each other and drifted toward their dorm rooms or the dinner table. The three mer stopped and waited at the magicka well for the crowd to thin.

  
“Really? What do you teach?” Irowe asked, feigning interest. Fallon exhaled slowly and stretched his legs.

  
“I am the Destruction Master. I oversee the other teachers of the Destruction School and I teach a few classes myself: an introductory class for the apprentices and several for experts like yourself if you’re interested.”

  
Irowe resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the underhanded suggestion that she needed the older mage’s guidance. She’d never had an education in a school like this: her father was a High Kinlord and prestigious enough to retain a tutor, old ‘Master’ Cirwenae. The focus had been on Illusion and Restoration magic. For inquisitors those were the most useful. Any halfwit could electrocute a prisoner or use a frost spell to freeze extremities, and even non-magic users could use implements to ply information.

  
Of course, her formal education had stopped the day she was banished to the Cyrodiil front, and while she had Amuril as a tutor he majored in the schools she didn’t. It took her thirty years to reach the same expertise as some twenty-five year old Bretons, but that was the price of self-tutelage.

  
She slowly noticed that she was being watched. Sitting on the other side of the magicka well was a white-haired Dunmer, his red eyes wide and staring. Irowe frowned, unable to think of a reason why she would be singled out among the dozens of other men and mer in the open hall. Then she noted the white detailing on his robes: a master of Illusion.

  
The Concealment spell.

  
“Can I help you?” Irowe asked sharply.

  
The Dark Elf shook his head incredulously. “You-you can see me?” He stammered.

  
“ _Yes_ , Drevis, we can all see you.” Faralda sneered.

  
“Confound it all,” He snapped his fingers. “I was sure I was invisible...” He muttered and rubbed his chin.

  
A pair of adepts giggled behind him and hid their faces in spell books. Drevis turned around and they gasped quietly, shooing each other down the corridors. The Dunmer sighed and adjusted his odd metal-ribbed gloves.

  
“And that would have given you the right to stare?” Irowe asked.

  
Drevis slowed and refastened the cuffs.

  
“My apologies.” He offered. Drevis raised his hands over the well and the gloves glowed. The magicka in the well grew brighter as well.

  
“Flame atronach?” He asked softly.

  
“Dragon.”

  
His eyes shot to hers and they held each other’s gaze. He studied her face anew, no doubt memorizing all the pockmarks and scarred blisters she was cursed with. Her face was worse, if that was possible, than it was in Last Seed. Curawen had explained this happened, that ‘sometimes things got worse before they got better’, especially with burns. As if she was supposed to feel _better_ knowing it would be years before the inflammation died down.

  
“Well... I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot more of those these days.” Drevis murmured.

  
“Master Neloren, _what_ are you talking about?” Faralda asked- no, _demanded_ of her colleague.

  
Drevis chuckled and shook his head. “Never mind, Faralda; if you can’t see it, you can’t see it.” He turned back to purifying the magicka well, smirking to himself.

  
“Master Neloren is the head of our Illusion school.” Faralda said, limply gesturing in his direction. “There aren’t many who take his classes, it is an ‘underappreciated’ school-”

  
“Look- this is all very interesting, but I _was_ hoping to see this library of yours. Sometime before dark.” Irowe said pointedly.

  
“The Arcanaeum.” Faralda corrected her.

  
“Whatever...” Fallon muttered. Both women glared at him.

  
Drevis stifled a laugh. “The Arcanaeum is in the Hall of the Elements, the main hall. The lecture hall is on the first floor, but the orb is in there now. It makes it interesting to give lectures, especially since you can't _see_ the whole room anymore.”

  
Irowe clenched her fists and resisted the urge to strangle Faralda. She had taken them to every point of interest _but_ the one she'd asked for? This was because of the Calm spell, wasn’t it? She rarely wanted to follow through on Qonahmir's whispered schemes but this woman was testing her patience.

  
“Could we go there now?” Irowe asked with forced politeness.

  
Faralda turned back to her, no doubt starting to explain that there were still parts of the College they hadn't seen yet. Irowe crossed her arms. Faralda closed her mouth and nodded.

  
“We can continue the tour at another time of course.”

  
She stared down her nose at Master Neloren, who didn’t look at her but continued smiling. Irowe caught a very soft ‘harrumph’ before the Destruction mage led them out of the hall and across the courtyard.

  
There was a small class ongoing in the Hall of the Elements, although the students had already packed everything away and looked ready to leave at a moment’s notice. In the center of the hall, behind their Breton instructor, was an orb.

  
Qonahmir and Vuljotnaak immediately perked up at its presence. Irowe admitted it did have a certain soothing aura to it, but that became suspect as soon as the two dragons inside her wanted it. She wasn't even sure _why_ they wanted it, but the answer to any request was 'no'.

  
_It is powerful..._ Qonahmir hissed in awe.

  
_Yes..._ Vuljotnaak agreed.

  
_It is a **ball** and it is not yours._ Irowe reminded them. Honestly: dragons were worse than toddlers.

  
_With that orb we could rule Tamriel. Defeat Alduin. You wouldn't need the Kel if we only possessed that._

  
Irowe scoffed at Qonahmir's rambling. Now they were being ridiculous: how would that thing defeat Alduin? The thur wasn't a _cat_ that could be distracted with a shiny bauble. Besides, how would she even steal something so big? An Elder Scroll was far more manageable.

  
Irowe followed Faralda and Fallon up the left stairwell. Qonahmir and Vuljotnaak pleaded - demanded - to return the orb. If both dragons were clawing at her to get a closer look at this orb, she didn't want to be anywhere near it.

  
The Arcanaeum was impressive, for a library at a Nordic college. As expected there were rows and rows of bookshelves extending from a round reading area. At the far end was a long desk stacked with scrolls and books, but while there were a few perusing students there was no sign of any librarians. Faralda was going on about how most of the records dated back to the Second Era, how well maintained it all was. Irowe nodded but kept her eyes peeled for the long golden shape of an Elder Scroll.

  
Rumbling hums of magicka shook the ground five times.

  
“What was that?” Fallon asked nervously, dreading the answer.

  
“It's five o'clock.” Faralda said coolly. She checked a notebook and sighed. “Well, you know your way around and if you have any trouble or questions ask for the staff. If you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for a lecture.”

  
Irowe flashed a forced smile and watched the other red-headed Altmer leave. She made a note to never wear her hair in pigtails: it looked _very_ immature.

  
“ _Not_ very helpful.” Fallon muttered once the door closed behind her.

  
“Shh!” Irowe rapped his shoulder. Fallon huffed and tugged at the collar of his cloak. Out of several hundred men, mer and beasts he was the only one in armor. The cloak didn’t mask that but it helped.

  
“You know what a Kel looks like?” Irowe asked, replacing a book defending the practice of necromancy. Apparently they taught _anything_ here - no wonder the Nords hated them so much.

  
“A what?” Irowe rolled her eyes and mouthed 'Elder Scroll'. Fallon frowned. “No?”

  
“Gold case, almost as long as you're tall.” Fallon frowned at her. Yes, he barely came up to her shoulders, but he was actually _tall_ for his race. “Handles, purple gems on the outer edges, and an ancient, possible Aedric script.”

  
She slowed her search of the shelves, realizing that the orb downstairs had had similar script on its dark ribs. Curious... Irowe shook her head and continued the search. After looking over every bookshelf in the hall they turned up nothing. Fallon wandered off to search the display cases, while she continued perusing the shelves.

  
A trudging green and gold shape in the corner of her vision made her turn around: an elderly Orc in yellow mages robes was filing books. While she’d never heard of Orcs using magic - or living long enough to have white hair - anything was possible.

  
Of course, it was also likely that college policy required all the staff to wear mages robes. Regardless, he _might_ know where an Elder Scroll was.

  
“Excuse me-”

  
“What did you break?” The old Orc demanded. He hadn't even bothered to look up.

  
“What? Nothing! I was wondering if you could help me find a scroll.”

  
Now the Orc looked up, raising a bushy white eyebrow. He grunted and shook his head, shelving a weathered tome.

  
“Everything's ordered by spell and magnitude according to the school. You need more than that or you want me to hand it to you too?”

  
Irowe stood there with her mouth slightly agape. When she didn’t answer, he moved on to the large desk and picked up another bundle of books.

  
“Kids these days...” He muttered.

  
Irowe stuck out her lip. She was not a _kid_. She was fifty-eight and carried the souls of several beings as old as the Dawn Era.

  
“I'm looking for an Elder Scroll.” Irowe said following him.

  
He stopped and stared at her, turning his head and fingering a well-kept tusk. The Orc shrugged and walked back to the desk.

  
“Sure, I've got one in this drawer, right here.” He said, patting the table between them.

  
“Can I see it?” Irowe asked. It was only after a few seconds of him staring at her that she realized he was being sarcastic. Irowe cleared her throat. “I _am_ serious.”

  
“Sure you are.” He exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, whose idea was this? My septim’s on Phinis.”

  
Irowe straightened her back and shoulders, something the librarian noted with amusement. He continued reshelving books as she focused her thoughts. She couldn’t honestly blame the old Orc for dismissing her outright: asking for an Elder Scroll at a Nordic Mages College _was_ ridiculous. However this was a genuine request. She just had to state her request in a manner that would be taken seriously.

  
The Orc returned for another stack of books and looked at her, waiting for her to speak. Irowe cleared her throat.

  
“I need a very specific Elder Scroll - one that was in Skyrim during the Merethic Era. For research. Can you help me or not?”

  
The librarian scratched his chin. He put away two of the books in his arms, stealing studious glances at her. Finally he sighed and rolled up his sleeves.

  
“Come outside.” He said, heading for the door opposite the stairwell.

  
Irowe looked around for Fallon, signaling him to follow the Orc. The three of them walked outside, though the Orc didn’t bother throwing up his hood against the biting air.

  
This door led to the outer wall of the College, which connected the roofs of the two smaller halls to the main one. The Hall of the Elements was another story higher, so the 'roof' was more of a balcony round the Arcanaeum. The librarian walked to the northern wall's edge.

  
We don't have any Elder Scrolls here, and I don't know that I'd let you look at one if we did. But if you really are serious about your 'research', you’re looking for Septimus Signus.”

  
“Who?”

  
“An alumnus. Lives out in the glacier pack north of here. Observation post of gods only knows what...” He frowned and pointed out across the glacier covered ocean, to a barely visible chunk of ice past another of Skyrim’s monolithic ruins. “He's studied the Elder Scrolls all his life, wrote a few books on them too. If anyone can help you find one, he can.”

  
Irowe stared out at the distance, trying to gauge how far it was and how long it would take to get there. The real trouble would be traversing the floes, and that could take hours - they only had a few hours of daylight left. There was also the matter of finding a boat they could borrow for the trip, and she doubted the mages kept one on hand. That meant bothering the local Nords for one, she realized with a scowl.

  
Still, they were on the right path.

  
“Thank you, I will tell him you sent me, Master...?”

  
“Urag.” The old Orc said. He wrapped his hands around his chest and headed back inside.

  
“Thank you again.” Irowe called after him. He grunted and shut the door.

  
“Why can't anything go right the first time?” Fallon whined, slumping down the short wall to the floor.

  
Irowe shushed him, gazing out over the glaciers and trying to find the tiny island again. Fallon picked at something in the cracks of the frozen tiles.

  
“So, wait for Amuril or head for this outpost?” He asked.

  
Irowe bit her lip and looked left to Magnus. There was probably... two, three hours of daylight left. No, it would have to wait until morning at the earliest-

  
The horizon pitched like a ship in rough seas. Irowe gagged and covered her mouth, but the dragons had the worst of it. She looked around, frowning at a grey-cloaked figure, almost yellow in hue. It was a markedly different color and cut than the dreary Nordic grey, it almost looked... Altmeri.

  
“Irowe.” The mer said, standing in the doorway like he had become part of the masonry. “Daughter of Asuroth and Palaneya Vicarian, wife of Amuril Malcior and the mother of Melucar Malcior.”

  
The dragons recoiled from this strange mer, convinced he was the epicenter of whatever was affecting them. Irowe’s eyes unfocused from the mer and concentrated on the wind, or rather the suspended motes of snow and dirt in what was normally the wind. She shot a glance to Fallon, whose normally sharp eyes were frozen mid-blink as he turned to face their visitor.

  
“Who are you? What are you doing- what do you _want_?” Irowe snapped.

  
The mer blinked and tilted his head, his eyes searching for something and part of her could _feel_ it. Finally a thin puff of steam came from his mouth.

  
“Alduin will not wait forever. You must be swift, Dragonborn.”

  
“Who told you that?!” She asked, recoiling from this stranger.

  
How did this mer know she was Dragonborn? How did he know about Alduin either, or Alduin’s plans and their timetable? Was he merely guessing or privy to the dragon's council?

  
The stranger gave no reaction, no hint as to his knowledge’s source. He turned and walked back inside, slipping through the door to the hall.

  
“Who told you that?!”

  
He didn’t answer. Irowe raced after him and threw the door open. She collided with him just inside the threshold and they fell, the mer groaned as they hit the unforgiving floor. Irowe scrambled on top of him and held his shoulders down - she _and_ the dragons wanted answers and they were going to _get_ them-

  
“Irowe!” Amuril shouted, his eyes wide but eyebrows furrowed as he glared up at her.

  
Irowe froze and stared at her husband who she had, somehow, mysteriously, pinned to the floor instead of the stranger. Her eyes darted among the bookshelves and the stairwells.

  
Amuril groaned and shoved her off, rubbing his shoulder with a wince. Irowe laid a hand on it with a numbing spell but kept up her search. A few students glanced their way, whispering to each other and looking to Urag before returning to their books.

  
There was no sign of the yellow cloak among the drab uniforms.

  
On a hunch she flicked her wrist, illuminating all the lifesigns in the room with a spell. Disappointingly, everyone alive was visible. Irowe realized that her queasiness had also gone away, so whatever he had done, it wore off.

  
“Where did he go?” Irowe asked, her voice only half there.

  
“You were expecting someone else?” Amuril muttered, extricating his legs from under her robes.

  
Amuril stood up and pulled her to her feet, dusting both of their robes. The door behind them opened and Fallon poked a very confused head in.

  
“How’d you get over here so fast and so quietly?”

  
“There was this strange mer in a grey-yelow cloak-”

  
“Quaranir.” Amuril said suddenly.

  
Irowe frowned. “Who?”

  
Amuril opened his mouth but glanced over his shoulder as a group of students hurried in for their evening research. The older Altmer laid a hand on her arm and guided the two mer outside. They walked around to the lee of the hall and looked to make sure they hadn’t been followed. Amuril fussed with his cloak and explained that this strange mer was a Psijic monk - and elaborated on that, not that either of them asked him to.

  
“What did he want with you?” Irowe asked.

  
Amuril averted his gaze and pinched his nose. “He seems to think the orb downstairs is dangerous, and something terrible is about to happen.”

  
“That's it? Would it kill him to be more specific?”

  
“Fallon.” Amuril shot a soft glare in the Bosmer’s direction. Fallon huffed and rubbed his shoulders. “I'm willing to trust his judgement.” Amuril added quietly.

  
Irowe crossed her arms. Just because Amuril liked other mages didn't mean she had to. She wasn't sure that anyone who could stop time or read her life like a book could be trusted. Respected perhaps, but not trusted.

  
“He knows who I am.” Irowe said.

  
Amuril inhaled sharply, his gold eyes wide. “What did he say?”

  
“We're running out of time-”

  
The door opened and they all looked. Three apprentices, a Dunmer, a Khajiit and the Nord walked out carrying books. Thankfully they headed for the Hall of Attainment and didn't seem to notice the three mer sitting in the shadows. The three mer didn't breathe easier until the three figures disappeared into the students' dormitory.

  
“Alright...” Amuril sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair, again and again until he'd worked knots into it. He forced his hands into his lap and sighed again. “I take it they do not have an Elder Scroll?”

  
“A former member, north of here, might know where it is.” Irowe said, her eyes glancing toward the sea beyond the wall.

  
Amuril nodded. “Alright. Tomorrow we'll go talk to them.”

  
“I’d rather go now.”

  
“Irowe-”

  
“Amuril.”

  
Perhaps this Psijic could not be trusted, but he had done nothing to earn her distrust either. She begrudgingly agreed with his assessment of Alduin - and the orb, given the dragons' reactions to it. The monk's opinion was only useful because it confirmed her own suspicions on the matters. The sooner they got away from this college and defeated Alduin, the better everything would be.

  
“Alright.” Amuril relented finally.

  
Fallon shifted and adjusted his armor. “Can I go with her?”

  
Amuril looked down at him, then to Irowe. They _would_ travel faster together, as well as being safer together than alone.

  
“Yes.”

  
Irowe nodded and stood up, stretching her arms. The two mer followed her to their feet.

  
“Have you spoken with the Advisor yet?” Irowe said suddenly, remembering their official reason for coming to the College in the first place.

  
Amuril rocked his head back and forth, not quite a yes or a no. He gave the tiniest of nods before elaborating. “Briefly. I think I will do that while you’re gone.”

  
“Perfect. Come on, Fallon.”

  
Irowe tapped the Bosmer’s shoulder and headed back inside for the stairwell. She was already running through a mental list of things they needed to reach that outpost: a boat, food - bedding if things got further out of hand.

  
“Oh- If it’s too late by the time we get there, we’ll come back in the morning.”

  
“Understood.” Amuril called over his shoulder.

  
Fallon closed his mouth and said nothing, letting his slumped shoulders and quiet sigh signal his disapproval of their schedule. Irowe took once last look at the sun, quickening her pace as its corona peered out from under the heavy clouds. They were running out of time.


	19. Secrets in the Ice

> _"Each of our minds is actually the emptiness, and the learnings of the Scrolls are the pinpoints of light. Without their stabbing light, my consciousness would be as a vast nothingness, unknowing its emptiness as a void is unknowing of itself."_
> 
> _\-- Septimus Signus_

* * *

 

LEAVING the Mages College required walking over that harrowing bridge again. Fallon wished he’d _remembered_ that before volunteering to venture out into the Sea of Ghosts for some scroll expert. He picked his way across the iced-over stones and did his best not to look down at the rocks and drift ice far, far below. He wasn’t afraid of heights - he was raised around trees taller than the College’s bridge - but there was a difference between graht-oaks that had endless layers of branches and... and a slippery straight drop into freezing water.

  
Irowe took his arm after the first magicka well and dragged him down the stones, only releasing him when they reached the mainland’s gateway. He glared at her and straightened his armor. It was fine for the two mages: Amuril knew how to walk on air and Irowe had that ghost Shout, but what did he have? The hope that their reflexes were as good as his and they’d bother to catch him if he started falling? Ata had trusted Altmer like that during the war: that’s how he got a knife in his leg.

  
The ‘city’ guards glanced their way, no doubt sneering under those faceless helmets. Fallon crept around the sides of the gateway, looking for a way down if there was one. The last thing he wanted was for Irowe to try and use magic and jump.

  
Irowe grabbed his arm again and pulled him into the town.

  
“Irowe, I can walk by myself-”

  
“Go in there and buy something.” Irowe said, nodding toward a house with ‘Birna’s Oddments’ scrawled on a wooden door sign.

  
“What?”

  
“This Signus man is more likely to help us if we come bearing gifts, so go get him a gift.” Irowe said, handing him her coin pouch bulging with septims. She spun him around and ushered him toward the door. “I'll find us a boat.”

  
“What, but I-”

  
The door shut behind him before he could finish. Fallon swallowed and looked around. The only woman - no doubt the storeowner - smiled, but more to the bag of coins in his hand than him.

  
“Welcome to Birna’s Oddments. Can I help you with anything?”

  
Divines, he wanted to strangle that Altmer. They were nobles, and he knew Irowe had been raised as one - Y’ffre, her father ran a _bank_. She really should know how to handle money better. A rundown ghost-town like this, you didn’t just walk into a shop with a giant bag of money.

  
“No, just looking.” Fallon lied. Neither of them believed it.

  
The blonde Nord hummed and wiped dust off her countertop as Fallon tried to find a place on his belt for the Malciors’ coin purse. At least he had his scarf over his nose and his hood up so she couldn’t read his face.

  
The store was about what he expected: a few wares on the shelves and tables closest to the counter, cobwebbed barrels and crates underneath a stair that led to the living quarters, a large hearth with stew simmering in a pot by the fire. Mostly simple weapons and hunting trophies, and mead and wine: shelves and _shelves_ of mead and wine. He supposed the locals needed it in good supply just for living here, but he couldn’t be sure that was what this Signus person would like.

  
Fallon frowned. The only mage he knew that he could see becoming a hermit was Amuril: the mer loved books, always needed candles, paper and charcoal, and was eternally grateful for decently cooked food. He couldn’t blame him; he’d had both of the Malciors’ cooking before. Amuril either used too many spices or none at all, and Irowe’s cooking barely passed as edible. Come to think of it, he’d never heard of a mage being a good cook. Which was odd: didn’t they make all those potions?

  
Of course, ‘Septimus Signus’ was an Imperial name. Immediately his thoughts drifted to what Ama would have Erigoth buy from the traders when he went into Falinesti. They were mostly baubles that reminded her of home, or pretty stones. Ama really only bought those for sentiment though, and there were plenty of Imperials who had never seen Cyrodiil so that was a dead end. He doubted an isolated wizard would care for a mammoth tusk or - he stared at three human skulls adorning a shelf and wondered what _those_ were doing on a store shelf.

  
Fallon sighed. Food was always a good choice. He doubted anyone who lived in the middle of the ocean had a steady supply of fresh fruit or vegetables. He knelt down next to a collection of sacks and started going through them. Something that even Irowe could use, in case the man couldn’t cook, and things that went with an Imperial or Nordic diet of seafood...

  
Men loved using potatoes in their dishes, even if these ones had grown roots as long as his fingers. Another sack had apples at its bottom and he picked through them until he found one that wasn’t obviously rotting. Fallon turned his attention to the shelf nearest him stocked with alcohol. A stout bottle of alto wine had uses in cooking if the man didn’t want to drink it.

  
Something caught the firelight and he reached back, unable to believe his good luck. A small jar of preserves, snowberry by the look of it. He walked over to the fireplace and took a loaf from the baking pan. Satisfied, Fallon gathered up the items and laid them out on the counter. The Nord woman glanced over his intended purchase.

  
“One hundred septims.”

  
“Thirty.” Fallon replied flatly.

  
“ _Thirty_? I have to feed myself.” She scoffed and pulled back from the counter.

  
She was acting fairly haughty for a purveyor of dubiously edible goods, arrogance that _might_ come from being the only grocer around. Yes there was the inn, but inns were always more expensive and he’d rather not go there if he didn’t have to. He inhaled, thought back on how Ama taught Erigoth to deal with greedy merchants, and exhaled coolly.

  
“You want _one hundred septims_ for a bruised apple, potatoes that are growing roots, and a three year old jar of preserves?” She frowned at him, but the pupils in her blue eyes shrank. Maybe the preserves were older than he thought. “The bread is fresh, I'll give you that.” Fallon shrugged.

  
They stood on their respective sides of the counter as the fire cracked.

  
“Forty. Forty-five if you throw in a small sack.” Fallon relented, inclining his head toward the stack of burlap atop a crate.

  
“Done.”

  
When she had bagged everything Fallon held it carefully and walked out into the snow-covered streets. Irowe waved to him, walking toward the College gateway with the boy they’d left the horses with earlier.

  
“... and we can walk there, you say?” Irowe said to the gangly blond Nord. He nodded eagerly and pointed down at the shore lead underneath the College’s bridge.

  
“You may needin’ hop across the ice down there to get to the other side of the College, but you follow the land north and there’s fast ice leadin’ out to it.” He flicked the thick curls from his face. “Ol’ man keeps a boat out there, in case he needin’ come back in. Hard to miss.”

  
“Thank you.” Irowe said, flashing a smile.

 

She fished her coin purse from Fallon’s belt and gave the youth a decim. A _decim_. Fallon frowned. The boy beamed and thanked her before heading into the inn to spend his newly earned coin.

  
“Looks like we won’t ‘be needin’’ a boat after all.” Irowe said placing her hands on her hips.

  
Fallon tried to time his slumping shoulders with breathing out so she wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

  
Irowe grabbed the sack from him and dropped it into her empty pack before setting off down a thin trail. A few minutes later they were on the beach. There was a small collection of fishing dories but nothing that looked seaworthy, so maybe it was a blessing they weren’t using a boat after all. Anyways, the ice just offshore looked too thick to get into open water. Irowe dawdled on the beach, trying to gauge the distance to the nearest floe.

  
“Irowe, that’s- it’s too far.” Fallon said, gesturing at the distant ice.

  
Irowe turned and tilted her head. She shrugged. “I think I can jump it.”

  
She bent down and took off her pack. Fallon looked at her dubiously but accepted it from her outstretched arm. He’d expected to carry the gift sack anyway. He loosened the straps and slid it over his own pack.

  
Irowe knelt down in front of him, and despite the growing unease in his stomach Fallon awkwardly laid his arms over her shoulders. She stood up and thirteen years of tree-climbing made him instinctively wrap his arms and legs around her. If she was as uncomfortable with this arrangement as he was, she hid it very well. Irowe took hold of his wrists and-

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
Fallon yelled as he was slammed back when Irowe started running. At least he thought he was yelling because his throat was humming. He couldn’t hear anything. She made the jump across the shallow water to the ice with ease. Irowe held him tighter and jumped from floe to floe, springing off the ice and pushing the far edges into the air by several feet. They reached the land on the College’s side of the bridge but-

  
Fallon moaned and tried to hold onto her shoulders tighter. She didn’t stop. She wasn’t stopping. She wasn’t stopping. Y’ffre, he was going to be sick-

  
Irowe darted to the left among the rocks, startling a small horker colony that honked at them. Fallon clutched at the hem of her hood as she ran up the side of an icy ledge and over a boulder, colliding with the ground on the other side but still running. She was starting to slow down, just a little. The wind was biting his face and Irowe ran along uplifted ledges of ice, searching for a way down. Not finding one she jumped. Fallon screamed: that had to be a twenty, thirty foot drop-

  
She Shouted again and they shot forward, somehow miraculously she hit the ground running although he hit his chin on her shoulder. Fallon clenched his eyes shut. He tried to yell her name, to tell her to stop, _beg_ her to stop. He couldn’t hear anything, just the ringing in his ears.

  
Fallon buried his face in her shoulder, numbly aware that the crazed Altmer had slid to a stop. Irowe tapped his hands and pried his legs from around her waist. Fallon collapsed on the ground. Irowe steadied her hands on her knees and looked to the western horizon.

  
“I’ll say... we made good time...” Irowe panted with a laugh. He could just barely hear her over the chimes in his ears. “Might even... make it back before... they know we’re missing-”

  
Fallon jerked his scarf down and knelt over the nearest crack in the ice. He threw up the boiled beef and cheese he’d had for lunch. Irowe pulled his hood down to tuck his hair back behind his ears, replacing it when she had done. Fallon continued until he’d emptied his stomach, although he kept dry heaving for nearly a minute after that. When he felt he was finished he crawled to a different crack and gargled the freezing water.

  
“Better?” She asked gingerly.

  
Fallon splashed his face before spitting out the water. “Please don’t do that again...” Fallon groaned, leaning back and gasping for air.

  
His jaw hurt where he bumped her on the landing, and his ribs ached. Stars, that was... He frowned and stared south. The College was a distant grey blur among the clouds and ice. He’d spent more time _retching_ than she had running through the ice field.

  
He sighed and lay back on the ice. Dragon magic...

  
There was a poorly boarded hole in the middle of the iceberg, halfway up a tilted ice wall. Irowe helped Fallon to his feet and pried the boards away, climbing down a lashed ladder and into the blue darkness. Fallon wiped his mouth and picked his way down the ladder. Irowe held her arms out to catch him just in case as he neared the bottom. They were in some sort of crevice, and there was light coming from a bend in the ice. Irowe walked in front and as the ringing finally died down he heard a reedy voice muttering.

  
Ahead was a large cavern in the iceberg, and as Fallon reached the edge he could see a bronze-colored cube the size of the embassy barracks partially-thawed from the ice. There were swirls and rings etched into it and giant circles of greenish-blue metal or glass dotting the rings, some of them were larger than he was. The ledge led down to the floor of sorts, where a study area of bookshelves and tables had been set up. A bent figure in blue robes paced between a bookshelf and overturned pitcher.

  
“Are you Septimus Signus?” Irowe asked, her voice echoing off the cavern walls.

  
“Fal’Zhardum Din lays wondrous deep... There is naught left but dark beneath...”

  
“Excuse me.” Irowe asked again, louder this time. Now the man looked up. “Are you Septimus Signus? I’m told you’re an expert on Elder Scrolls.”

  
“I know of them!” The white-bearded Imperial gasped. “The Empire thinks they can count the stars in their weft, but this is _arrogance_. They think they see, but this is only one reality, one time. The Elder Scrolls... are _many_.”

  
Fallon slowly nodded his head, not understanding a word the man was saying or trying to say. Irowe frowned, but focused on the fact he admitted knowing about the Elder Scrolls and not... whatever he was rambling about.

  
“We uh, we brought you something.” Fallon offered, but the Imperial only swayed back and forth, whispering to himself.

  
Fallon sighed and walked past him. There was a small section of a table that wasn’t covered in odd instruments or scrolls, and he could put the food there. He took out the bread and preserves, at least and arranging it while Irowe continued talking with the odd man.

  
“I need help finding one, a specific one in Skyrim during the Merethic Era. Can you help me locate it?”

  
“I know of it...! But Septimus cannot reach it in the black for I...” He straightened his back and peered out at them from under his gold-trimmed hood. “I have risen to greater depths.”

  
“I could get it for you. Where is it?” Irowe said quickly.

  
Fallon sighed in relief. That would be a first, if the thing they were looking for was _actually_ where they thought it would be.

  
The Imperial cast about his tables before turning back to them.

  
“Here... in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby. On the cosmological scale, all things are nearby. Yet perhaps... as one hand turns the other, so ourselves can help us each.”

  
Irowe sighed and crossed her arms. “What is it you want?”

  
The Imperial shambled over to the cube, raising his arms as if to embrace it. Fallon walked over to stand beside Irowe.

  
“This... masterwork of the Dwemer. Within, their deepest knowings. Septimus is clever among men but an idiot child compared to the dullest Dwemer.” He turned and tilted his head. “Lucky then, they left behind their own way of reading the Scrolls. In Blackreach, one yet lies.”

  
“Blackreach?”

  
“'Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire- hidden learnings kept. Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden Keep: Tower Mzark. Alftand: the point of puncture! Of first entry, of the _tapping_.'” He whispered, drawing close enough to Irowe’s face to push her hood back.

  
“Delve to its limits, and Blackreach lies beyond. But! Not all can enter there. Septimus, he knows 'the hidden key to loose the lock, to jump beneath the deathly rock’.”

  
Septimus pulled out a key and unlocked a small chest on one of the shelves. He pulled out a bronze-colored sphere and cube. Both were just big enough that they didn’t fit in the man’s hands. He walked back to them and held them out to Irowe.

  
“Two shapes I give to you: one edged, one round. The round: for tuning. Dwemer music is needed to open their deepest gates. The edged lexicon: for inscribing. To you and I, a block of metal, but to the Dwemer! A _library_. Full of knowings... but empty.” He said sadly, withdrawing his hands from the cube. Septimus reached up and placed his hands on Irowe’s shoulders. “Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machination will read the Scroll, and cast the lore upon the cube. Trust Septimus. He knows...”

  
Septimus blinked then, and returned to pacing the floor of the cavern.

  
“You want the cube back I take it?” Irowe asked, holding the metal box. Septimus turned and his eyes lit up when he saw it. Fallon frowned; had he already forgotten giving it to her?

  
“The lexicon... the Dwemer will focus the knowings away and inside, where it cannot hurt the eyes. Or the mind. When it glows, bring it back to Septimus, and Septimus can read once more.”

  
“I will return this to you, when it is...” Irowe shrugged. “Full.”

  
“Trust Septimus...” He whispered.

  
Fallon puffed out his cheeks and nodded slowly: _definitely_ crazy.

  
Irowe patted his shoulder. “Let's go.”

  
The two mer walked up the thin walkway back to the surface. Irowe pulled at the empty pack and Fallon slipped out of it, she thanked him quietly and placed it on her back.

  
“A Dwemer city...” Fallon said.

  
They rounded the bend and the ladder came into view. A very welcoming ladder that promised a warm bed and a good meal _somebody else_ cooked for a change, once they walked back to the College. He wasn’t sure if Amuril would be upset or ecstatic when he heard of their next destination. The mer hated ruins and their usual occupants, but Dwemer were the sort of intellectual stuff Amuril would babble excitedly about for hours and _hours_.

  
“The Empire is always investigating Dwemer ruins, and they often bring mages along with them.” Irowe shrugged and gripped the ladder’s rail. “I expect the College has an accurate map of the ruins in Sky... rim...” She stopped and blinked, her orange eyes started to glaze over.

  
“What's wrong?”

  
“You may want to string that.” Irowe murmured, pointing back at his bow case.

  
“What?” Fallon asked, untangling the case from the rest of his gear. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered Irowe’s newly-found sixth sense. “ _Dragon_?”

  
Irowe chuckled darkly. “A softbelly, from the sounds of it; must have heard me running.” She angled her ear toward the entrance. “Oh? Big talk for one so small...” She muttered.

  
“I thought Amuril didn't like you fighting those.” Fallon hissed, bending the bow tip and wrapping the string’s loop into the hook.

  
Irowe raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like it when she did that, especially when Amuril wasn’t around. It usually meant she was about to do something very, very stupid.

  
“Amuril doesn't have to know.” Irowe said conspiratorially.

  
Fallon opened his mouth to retort that they weren’t that far away from the College, that Amuril could probably hear the thing as well as they could and he would _know_ what she was doing-

  
Irowe pressed a gloved finger to his mouth. “Come with me, Master Bosmer, and I will teach you how to slay a dragon.”

  
Before he could object Irowe bolted up the ladder and into the open air. Fallon groaned, wondering what he’d done to deserve this, and followed her. The air thrummed as the dragon soared overhead, roaring its challenge at the two dark dots on the ice. Irowe was standing out in the field not even seeking cover. Then again, she didn’t have to, did she? Fallon swallowed and nocked an arrow.

  
The dragon wheeled to face them, beating its wings slowly so it dropped within taunting range. It was a large brown beast, with a pale underbelly and wings that stretched longer than Septimus’ outpost. He didn’t like the toothy grin it wore.

  
“ _Yol Toor Shul!_ ”

  
“ _Wuld!_ ” Irowe Shouted, dodging the fireball barreling down at her.

  
The flames engulfed the floe and it glowed red before exploding in a burst of steam. Irowe leapt further into the ice field, the exact opposite of Fallon’s destination. The dragon flew off, roaring again, to chase after Irowe.

  
“Irowe!” Fallon yelled when he hit the dark sand of the nearest island.

  
She was out in the ice with the dragon right on her heels. It was too far away for him to help and he _wasn’t_ leaving dry ground for anything. Suddenly, a large floe tipped up into the air as Irowe leapt off its edge and turned around quickly, racing back for Fallon’s island. The dragon roared angrily and circled as tightly as its size would allow, but there was still near a hundred yards between it and Irowe. Irowe Shouted again, picking up speed and she dug her boots into the wet sand beside Fallon, hitting the ground with a thud before scrambling to her feet.

  
“Irowe, it’s coming right at us-”

  
“The joints. And the underbelly. Aim between scales.” She said shaking wet sand off her clothes.

  
Fallon inhaled and took aim at the beast, letting one arrow fly and then another. The damned thing wasn’t slowing down, but at least the arrows were sticking. He aimed higher, at its neck, and when that arrow found its mark the dragon snarled and turned away.

  
“ _Nikriin!_ ” Irowe yelled, laughing when the dragon howled at her comment.

  
“What did you do- what did you say?” Fallon asked, reaching for another handful of arrows.

  
“I called it a coward, because it is.” She gasped, unable to breathe at the hilarity of enraging winged death. “Here it comes again. Aim for the elbows this time.”

  
“Shouldn’t you be doing something?”

  
“It’s hardly worth it...” Irowe muttered, flicking sand off her sleeves. Fallon dropped his bow and glared at her, then aimed at the approaching lizard and fired toward its neck again.

  
“Your shots _recharge_. I have to-” He fired again. The dragon snarled as it passed overhead. “ _Buy mine!_ ”

Irowe growled something in her throat, but shot a lightning bolt at the dragon’s retreating flank regardless. Somehow that brief spark seemed to do more damage than all his arrows: now _that_ wasn’t fair.

  
“Wings, Fallon.” Irowe called out and walked toward Septimus’ outpost. “I’ll take the right.”

  
The dragon came again, lower this time. Irowe shot out lightning bolt after bolt, weaving on the land ice for a good angle. Fallon did as Irowe had instructed earlier and aimed for the wing joint. The arrow stuck in-between the bones and snapped. The dragon roared and lost control, crashing into the water and under the ice.

  
Irowe walked toward the eastern bank where it had disappeared, frowning. Its wake forced several floes aground, leaving a large hole and a trail of bubbles rising from the ocean.

  
“That was... that was easier than I thought...” Fallon laughed nervously.

  
Irowe held her hand up and bent over, casting a spell that did nothing he could see.

  
The ground rumbled and the eastern floes shot into the air as the enraged dragon burst from the ice. Fallon cried out and stumbled backwards-

  
Irowe scooped him up and raced into the western ice field. Thankfully she wasn’t using dragon magic, although as Fallon got a close-up view of the dragon chasing him he wished she would. The dragon, its left wing too injured to fly, scrambled across the thin beach and out onto the floes behind them. The ice started cracking and water pooled under its weight.

  
“It’s just going to fall in the water again!” Fallon cried.

  
It was also catching up to them. The dragon roared. Irowe ran faster but-

  
Fallon looked behind him to where she was steadily running out of ice to stand on. Irowe grabbed Fallon and tossed him to the very edge of the floe. She turned and faced the charging dragon, hunching down and gathering a storm of light in her palms.

  
“Eyes! Mouth! Nose!” Irowe yelled as she released a lightning bolt that momentarily outshone Magnus. Fallon followed her suggestion.

  
The dragon snarled and stumbled as the shots of moonstone and shock magic landed. Its breathing was ragged and its head hung low and bloody, but still the infernal thing refused to die.

  
“ _Yol Toor_ -”

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
Two things broke at that instant: the dragon’s neck and the thin ice connecting their floe to the ice field. Fallon yelped as the floe shot away from the dragon’s evaporating body and he slid across the surface toward the water. Irowe reached out and grabbed his collar, stopping him from going over.

  
The pack ice groaned and gave way to the dragon’s skeleton, only bubbles and broken ice proving it had been there at all. Fallon climbed to his feet shakily and watched the pack ice fade further and further away. To add insult to injury, Magnus was setting behind them.

  
His shoulders slumped. So much for that warm dinner he was looking forward to... Irowe placed a hand on his shoulder and walked to face him. Then she turned so he could climb on her back.

  
“Irowe, that’s open water.” Fallon said, gesturing limply to the increasing expanse between them and civilization. Irowe turned around and crossed her arms.

  
“You’d prefer to starve, stranded on a floe in the middle of the ocean?” She said, somehow still looking down at him despite being on her knees.

  
Fallon opened his mouth to point out he was a Green Pact mer and, if it came to that, he had no qualms about eating her. But he decided it would be better as a surprise. If it came to that. She _was_ the only one who could take down dragons by sneezing on them and that was a very useful point in her favor.

  
“Fine, might as well die trying to get home...” He muttered, trying to stuff as much of his hood into his ears as he could. He doubted it would block out the Shout, but it was better than nothing.

  
“I don’t plan on dying just yet.” Irowe scoffed as he once again wrapped his arms and legs around her torso.

  
Irowe stood up and shuffled her feet back for a running start. Fallon stared out at the water they were trying to cross, desperately ignoring the pit in his stomach that said they were going to sink right to the bottom.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
Fallon closed his eyes and focused on not throwing up again. It wasn’t until five seconds passed without getting unreasonably wet that he opened them again. Irowe turned, throwing up a splash of water onto the ice before continuing to run on the open ocean. She Shouted again and leapt onto the ice, skipping over a small bay now that they knew she could. Fallon stared out at the ice and ocean as it passed by, with the setting sun dusting the ice and sky pink and purple. If he ignored the nausea it was... beautiful.

  
Irowe slowed down and splashed through the shallows underneath the College, dropping to her knees in the wet sand and burying her hands up to the wrist. Fallon awkwardly tumbled off of her and they both lay there, gasping for air and chuckling to themselves.

  
“You can run... on water...” Fallon stated incredulously. “You can _run_ on _water!_ ” He laughed and rolled over to face her.

  
“It’s not that hard, apparently...” Irowe giggled, collapsing in a heap on the sand. She sighed and covered her eyes with her arm. “Stars, I’m famished...”

  
The two mer sat there until they were able to walk again. Fallon helped Irowe to her feet as she was a little dizzy. They walked up to the path to the College, laughing and shaking their clothes free of sand.

  
“Don’t tell Amuril.” Irowe sighed.

  
“Oh no. No.” Fallon grimaced and shook his head. “Just between us.”

  
Irowe grinned and patted his shoulder. “And I believe I owe you a few arrows when we get back to Solitude.”

  
He slowed down and stared at her back. “Thank you.” He said quietly.

  
“ _Fallon_. _Don’t_ mention it.” Irowe said, walking backwards to give him a playful glare.

  
He nodded. Of course, if Amuril learned _why_ Irowe needed to buy him a small bundle of arrows, _Irowe_ would be the one getting her hide tanned. If for some reason he’d missed that epic dragon fight out in the floes, but... what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.


	20. In the Midden Dark

> _"The initial attack on Saarthal seems to have been very focused... my inclination is to suggest that not only did the elves know the layout of the city, but that their assault was based on a specific directive and singular goal.”_
> 
> _\-- Heseph Chirirnis_

* * *

  
QUARTERS in the Hall of Attainment, which he now understood to be the student dormitory and a backhanded slight to a wizard of his caliber, were as expected for a Nordic Mages College. Austere, but welcoming: not unlike the rest of the College. At least the beds comfortably fit someone of his frame, unlike most other beds in Skyrim. He disliked the absence of any doors however.

  
The air was saturated with magicka and the faint scent of cast spells from every school. This was the closest he had come to feeling at home in his and Irowe’s nine years in Skyrim.

  
Amuril frowned. No: ten almost, in five more weeks. After that there was Melucar’s birthday to plan for. Amuril wondered if they should tell him he was Dragonborn then or wait until he was older. Really, it depended on Irowe and how she was handling that development in her own life.

  
Amuril sighed. It would be wonderful if they could finish up this dragon business sometime before Melucar’s birthday on the eighth of Rain’s Hand. They could leave Skyrim and never have to worry about some dragon revealing her-

  
“Did you see the dragon?” A student’s voice echoed up the halls.

  
Amuril’s eyes widened and he was on his feet in an instant. Stars, not _now_ , not with hundreds of people as witnesses-

  
“Where?” A boy asked the question he was dreading.

  
“Oh it’s not here now- flew off over the sea.”

  
Amuril collapsed onto the wall with relief. Then he remembered that outpost was out in the godsforsaken ocean and the anxiety came back again. Outside, a group of students was walking up the hall, fresh from a lecture and amicably chatting amongst themselves.

  
“Looking for fish no doubt.” A Dunmer girl sniffed.

  
“Or sea monsters!” A Breton boy joked, snaking his arms towards the nearest woman of the group. She made a face and slapped at his hands.

  
“Corrin, keep your hands to yourself...”

  
“Fancy seeing one of those wyrms this far north.” A Dunmer boy mused.

  
“You don’t think it’ll come back for the College, do you?”

  
“Of course not!” A lanky Redguard laughed. “If this old rock can withstand the worst the sea can throw at it, a dragon shouldn’t be a problem.”

  
“Where do you think it was going?”

  
“This one hopes it was heading for Atmora, and will leave chatty apprentices to review their notes.” A spotted Khajiit the size of a child purred darkly. She flicked her tail in annoyance and pulled out her journal. “Now, which Restoration spells require concentration?”

  
The students continued walking to their dorm rooms. If they noticed the pale master wizard standing in a doorway they paid him no mind.

  
Amuril groaned and lay down on the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. That woman... He sighed and held his hand out to check his ring. The warm ruby glow of the gem showed that Irowe was nearby and well, and he relaxed. Fallon was with her; she wouldn’t get into too much trouble with the Bosmer at her heels.

  
Amuril lit a candle with a flick of his wrist and reached over for the nearest book; he just had to do something so he couldn’t think about Irowe, dragons, Psijics, or Ancano. He frowned when he saw the spine’s title: _2920,_ _The Last Year of the First Era, Rain’s Hand_. He’d read all twelve of that series many years ago, and recalled the fictionalized account of the Dunmeri Tribunal gods and the last Reman Emperor.

  
Glancing through the pages, his frown deepened. The pages brimmed with Psijics, Artaeum, Daedra, and the looming threat of war. The worn spine rested on page 491, where Sotha Sil admonished Psijic initiates for succumbing to fear whilst walking on fire. One sentence, underlined in pen, was likely the reason the book was worn here.

  
_Fear does not break spells, but doubt and incompetence are the great enemies of any spellcaster..._

  
Amuril scowled. “I’m not incompetent-”

  
A knock drew his attention to the doorway. An elderly Nord in master robes frowned like he had forgotten something, the green detail of Alteration nearly faded into the grey of his tunic. He merely stood there, frowning into the room, glancing at the furniture and few belongings Amuril had placed around the room.

  
“Can I help you?” Amuril asked, inclining his head slightly.The old mage started and coughed, but there was the light of recognition in his eyes.

  
 “Aah, yes, you're the master that just arrived, the one the Psijic asked for. Master Melchior, was it?”

  
“Malcior.” Amuril corrected him, coloring and rubbing at his ear where Quaranir had held him. It itched terribly, now that he remembered it was there.

  
“Aah yes, forgive me. Malcior.”

  
The Nord master didn’t volunteer any information about himself. Amuril closed the book quietly and cleared his throat.

  
“I'm afraid I don't know your name.”

  
“Hmm? Oh! Tolfdir. I'm the Master of Alteration, and the Apprentice Form Tutor.” He sighed and shook his head. “Forgive me. It's been a few months since this room was occupied. I thought one of the students was looking for something of Tabitha's.”

  
“No. Master Ervine assigned it to my wife and myself. Irowe is... out, at the moment. She wanted to go look at something while we were here and I was just unpacking.”

  
“I see.” Master Tolfdir said with a nod.

  
“Who was this Tabitha?” Amuril asked as the man turned to leave.

  
Tolfdir’s shoulders slumped slowly and he walked back to the room. Amuril pulled the pack of spell tomes off a chair and the old mage gratefully sat down.

  
“She was a promising student: very gifted in Illusion- a _voracious_ appetite for knowledge. I suppose that's why she joined the excavation team...”

  
His bright green eyes dimmed and he rubbed his face. Tolfdir sighed but continued the tale.

  
“The orb, in the Hall of the Elements, we found it in Saarthal. Unfortunately we lost thirty-seven  people by the time we brought it here. Tabitha was one of them: draugr, I'm told.”

  
Amuril paled. He had noticed that the dormitory was... less than fully occupied, but he had assumed it was because those students couldn’t handle the coursework and returned home. Magic was dangerous, yes, but to lose _thirty-seven_ students in one incident was a tragedy. His thoughts drifted back to Rhuusa Gau, to Rkumzuleft, the night the Dominion army finally broke the barriers and stormed the academy. The bodies lying strewn across the floor of the box canyon and the air thick with magicka and blood...

  
Amuril shut his eyes and reoriented himself, turning to Tolfdir. “I'm so sorry.”

  
Tolfdir shook his head and sighed. “Ruins can be dangerous. We tell everyone this but not many take it to heart. We lost fourteen other first-year students. _I_ lost fourteen others.” He corrected himself.

  
Amuril thought back to Quaranir’s words, the allusion to some crisis involving the orb. These people had already lost thirty-seven students. No decent mer would allow them to lose any more.

  
“Master Tolfdir.” Amuril said, standing up. “Do you know someone called the Augur of Dunlain?”

  
“Hmm? Yes. Goodness me, it's been ages since I've heard that name...” Tolfdir said, frowning at the ground in thought. He shrugged. “I suppose he's still down in the Midden- the uh, the sewer and cave system underneath the College. The older students and faculty use it for experiments. I'm curious how you heard about him.”

  
“The Psijic suggested I talk with him about the artifact. He thinks it’s dangerous, and the Augur can help.”

  
It was Tolfdir’s turn to pale. “Well then, Master Malcior, I think you should.”

  
“Yes, I concur.” Amuril said hastily, pulling two potions of magicka and health restoration from his travel pack.

  
Tolfdir held up a finger. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the entrance.”

  
He led Amuril outside through the courtyard to the walkway left of the Hall of the Elements. Amuril glanced out the open arches in the wall to the sea. Irowe was out there somewhere, with Fallon - and a dragon, if those students were to be believed. With the sun setting, it was hard to see anything, and he couldn’t remember where exactly this outpost was.

  
The jingle of keys brought his attention back to the College. Tolfdir brushed ice off a trap door and unlocked it, throwing it open.

  
“We keep this locked, so the apprentices can’t wander in without supervision.”

  
He grunted and stood up, returning the ring of keys to his belt. Amuril looked down into the dank dark and swallowed, trying to suppress the memories of the Dwemer ruin Rkumzuleft that lay beneath Rhuusa Gau. The ruin he and Benji led the students to, hoping it would save them from the Dominion. He tried to forget how it didn’t.

  
Amuril inhaled and turned back to Tolfdir, shaking his hand. “Thank you again.”

  
“You seem like a good person.” Tolfdir smiled. He chuckled and pulled a windswept white strand from across his nose. “Besides, who am I to argue with a Psijic?” He shrugged.

  
Amuril gathered his robes and climbed down the creaking ladder. Tolfdir wished him good luck and shut the door, slowly so his eyes could adjust to the darkness. Amuril conjured a candlelight ball and continued his descent.

  
The ladder ended in a crevice that led into an ancient tunnel network. Amuril walked into the first large room and stared at two chained skeletons five yards up the far wall. There was still muscle and tissue holding the joints together. It was about level with him however, so he assumed the cadavers had been suspended for practicing Destruction spells. At least, he hoped they were cadavers.

  
Amuril walked down the stairs further into the tunnels, keeping his hands at his sides and trying not to touch anything. Where the masonry wasn’t covered in moss or ice, it was wet from things that didn’t bear thinking about. Mushrooms, old bloodstains, and various alchemic ingredients littered the corners and ledges.

  
And the bodies - stars, the remains of a few score humans and animals were so prolific in some rooms he couldn’t walk without stepping on one. He could hear the hiss of ice wraiths or the creak of reanimated skeletons and avoided those rooms.

  
None of this helped with the gnawing pit in his stomach, or the memories of that night in Rkumzuleft. He and Benji had gone into the Dwemer ruins, led everyone else into the hidden passage beyond the animunculi, the traps, the centurion. They went down into the ruins, hoping it would save them... similar to how he was down here, hoping this Augur could save this college.

  
What seemed like the main passage ended in an open area with a waterfall pooling into rusted grates. Amuril looked around and reached out to the magical aura of the College, trying to discern which way to go. A door next to the falls caught his eye, and that was as good a sign as any.

  
The passage led through a series of doors and a shrine made from a skull and four leg and hand bones adorned the final room’s far wall. An ice-covered bridge led across a chasm and into the glacier wall. On the other side through a short channel in the ice was a door. When he tried the door-handle however, it was locked.

  
“There is no solace in knowing what will come.” A raspy voice echoed up the ice corridor.

  
Amuril dropped back into a defensive stance and looked around. There was no one there. The speaker was no doubt on the door’s other side, and he tried the door again.

  
“Still you seek disappointment? So be it.”

  
The door unbolted and swung open revealing a small chamber shrouded in darkness, only a large pool of magicka inside the round room. The dim magicka motes glowed and swirled, reaching out of the pool and into a spinning sphere of blue light. Amuril stepped back, looking for whoever had activated the well.

  
“Welcome to the Midden.”

  
The sphere ‘spoke’, light shining brighter from its motes as the words sounded. Amuril relaxed and raised an eyebrow. He had been expecting some wizened Breton man, but a talking sphere of magicka was hardly the strangest thing he’d encountered in the last six months.

  
“I believe you’re the Augur I’ve been seeking.” He said hesitantly.

  
“I am. Your efforts are wasted. It has already begun. You still know not what you seek.” The sphere dimmed and drifted apart loosely, mimicking the forlorn tone to the Augur’s voice.

  
“I can still help: what is it I’m seeking?” Amuril asked. The sphere flashed brightly multiple times, and the motes dove closer together.

  
“That which all mages seek. Knowledge. But know this: knowledge is power, there is not one without the other, they are the same. Both corrupt. Both consume. Like so many others, you seek solace in its embrace but it will not embrace you as you wish. The Thalmor sought knowledge and power, and it shall be his undoing, as all before him.”

  
“The Thalmor?” Amuril inquired with a frown. The Augur sounded like he spoke of an individual, and Amuril could only think of one. “Ancano? Why would he come down here?”

  
“He seeks knowledge of the Eye, but he will find no comfort in it. Your paths will cross in time. First you must find what you need, and you will find no comfort in it.”

  
The unease returned to his stomach at the Augur’s words. He wasn’t particularly comforted _now_ , and the fact that the Augur hadn’t answered his original question didn’t help matters.

  
“What is it I need?”

  
“The Thalmor and those who aid you seek the same thing: knowledge of the Eye. _You_ wish to keep the wheel from turning, to see through Magnus’ Eye without losing sight. You need his Staff, but the hub is in place and already moving, ever faster, toward the inevitable conclusion.”

  
“ _You must be swift._ ” The lights swirled faster and tighter. “Take this knowledge to the Arch-Mage.” The Augur boomed in his raspy voice. The magicka drained into a vortex and lay still in the well.

  
Amuril frowned and, once it was clear the Augur had ended the conversation, walked back up the corridor. As he walked, he contemplated what he had been told by both Quaranir and the Augur.

  
Something terrible was coming, something that (they implied) was unavoidable at this point. A crisis involving this... Eye of Magnus, and something about a staff. And _he_ , for some unseen reason, was capable of mitigating its aftermath. There was one thing that perplexed him, more than the other ‘facts’ he knew about this upcoming crisis.

  
None of these seers seemed to understand that he was only a guest at the College of Winterhold.

  
If it was just the Augur he would dismiss it easily: being disembodied didn’t entail being omniscient. If it was just Quaranir, he could argue he’d misunderstood the meaning of the Psijic’s words. But both of them?

  
Did they know about Rhuusa Gau and how it was affecting him?

  
Amuril frowned. When he forced himself to remember, he could see similarities. Rhuusa Gau also had a Thalmor presence, in the army besieging the only exit from the box canyon. And if Ancano was acting on behalf of the Thalmor Council, he doubted either’s intentions were benevolent. Here and at Rhuusa Gau, there were casualties, though at Rhuusa Gau it devolved into a massacre.

  
No matter how badly he felt about the situation however, he could _not_ afford to act out anymore. Not with his ten years so close to being over, not with Irowe and this dragon business to deal with, and _especially_ not now that he’d been contacted by a Psijic. He would help the College, as much as he could, but he couldn’t afford to get involved. For Irowe’s sake, they had to be gone in the morning.

  
Amuril paused on the bridge. Was that... an Alinor accent? He turned and stared down at the chasm, determining the echoes were coming from somewhere below.

  
Amuril cast Muffle, then Slowfall. He held his breath and stepped off the bridge, dropping past alcoves and ledges draped with ice and bones. He hit the ground and crumpled, the air knocked from his lungs. Slowfall, like Levitation, was not something he used often, and it showed.

  
Amuril rubbed his legs and listened for the voices. There was a glacial corridor that smelled of the sea in front of him, and more tunnels behind. The voices echoed off the tunnels and he followed them back to a sort of catacombs.

  
“... we _can’t_ move the artifact by ourselves. Three mer can’t do it alone, let alone clear across Tamriel to Alinor!”

  
“We could enlist some of the locals into helping. What happened to that impressionable young mer? Orthel, something?”

  
“He’s missing, likely dead.”

  
Amuril stopped. That last voice was Ancano: the other two though, who were the other two? Were there other agents with Ancano? Amuril tried to ignore the chill creeping up his spine. How many agents did he have working for him? Could one of them seen or overheard them talking about the dragons?

  
The only light in the open tunnels came filtered through the glacier outside, though he could make out cobwebs on the far wall. There were two mer talking, but he couldn’t see exactly where they were. Amuril frowned. He’d heard three voices: he could only see two mer in the shadows. The other was likely behind a pillar.

  
“We are authorized to use deadly force if necessary-”

  
“We _need_ more _wizards_.” Ancano growled.

  
A hand closed around the back of his neck and Amuril stiffened, feeling the shock spell charging in the small of his back. When the gloves touched his skin he heard the quiet warp of an Invisibility spell breaking. That was where the third mer went.

  
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.” The mer hissed.

  
“He’s just come from the Augur, Estormo. Let him alone.” Ancano said, waving his hand.

  
Estormo loosened his grip and slid his hand down to Amuril’s shoulders, giving him a shove. Amuril caught his balance and joined the other mer in the darkness. He suspected he’d stumbled into something very much over his head.

  
“Master Malcior. How good of you to join us.” Ancano said, his voice dripping with virulence.

  
Amuril tried to think of what he’d done to deserve such a welcome. He remembered Quaranir’s words about something causing an aftermath, and the Augur’s words. Ancano had been looking for something, information about the Eye of Magnus.

  
“The Emissaries are concerned that we lost contact with you.” Amuril swallowed, sure that they could hear it in the stillness. “They sent me to find out why.”

  
“What do you mean ‘lost contact’?” Estormo sneered.

  
“We haven’t had anything from the Advisor in three months.”

  
“ _Three **months**?_ ” The third mer said incredulously. Amuril heard him shift to look at Ancano.

  
“Is that so? That's concerning.” Ancano’s lackluster tone suggested otherwise. “No matter. I suppose you're the only mage of your unit, as usual?” He sighed and waved his hand.

  
Amuril was quiet. Irowe was a mage, yes, but if they were trying to use teleportation spells it wouldn’t work. Irowe simply didn’t have the patience to learn older spells, he knew from countless sessions trying to teach her. And even if she did, he knew she’d rather Shout Ancano into the ocean than go back to Alinor. His hands were tied however: if one of Ancano’s agents saw Irowe in mages robes, after he told them she wasn’t a mage...

  
“My wife is a mage, but-”

  
“Excellent. Do either of you know teleportation spells? Mark and Recall?”

  
“No.” Amuril lied. The darkness gave him the advantage of hiding his face, making any sign he was lying impossible to spot. As long as he kept his tone even. “I could never learn Mysticism spells, and she barely qualifies as a mage.”

  
Ancano’s robes moved like he was waving his hand. Dismissively. “You can be taught. If you understand the basics of Mysticism, it isn’t that hard to learn. I taught Muril after all, so you’d hardly be the worst student I’ve had. That can wait until morning. Tell me...”

  
He couldn’t see anything, just faint shapes. He could _hear_ Ancano move closer but he couldn’t see him, and that was almost as unnerving as his tone.

  
“What did the Psijic want?”

  
He wasn’t expecting to feel the mer’s breath on his face. Amuril stepped back to get some distance. Amuril swallowed, trying to work out how to inform Ancano, without telling him anything important. Even if he suspected the mer knew most of what he had to say already...

  
“He thinks the Eye is dangerous.”

  
“And the Augur?”

  
Amuril hesitated. Perhaps he could convince Ancano moving the Eye was too risky, if he worded things right. “He agrees. They both say something terrible is going to happen, involving the Eye of Magnus.”

  
Estormo scoffed. “Terrible for _who_? It’s not like these mages have done anything with it besides make it a centerpiece.”

  
“Fools fear what they don’t understand, and hate what they can’t control.” Ancano drawled, stepping away back to the wall. “Why do you think the Nords buried it in that ruin?”

  
Knowing what the Augur and Quaranir had told him, Amuril felt he had a very good idea. The Eye itself wasn’t evil or good, but an object of power. And objects of power tended to corrupt any and all souls under their sway. The Eye only seemed to affect mages however, something Nords were _not_ known for. It...

  
Amuril shifted his feet. Could the Night of Tears - the first major letting of man’s blood in Tamriel by mer - have been caused by the Eye of Magnus? He told himself it was impossible, that there was no way the College masters would have kept it at the College if they thought there was any risk of massacre, but the doubt crept in.

  
Master Ervine and the Arch-Mage had brushed him off when he mentioned it was dangerous. He thought back to the way it held Master Ervine’s gaze; she was almost resentful he was looking at it. The other elder mages, when he passed the hall again, had the same look, like they wanted it for themselves even if they had no idea what it was or how to use it.

  
If it had the power to do _that_ to (he assumed) normally decent people... what could it have done to Ancano, and his associates here in the dark?

  
What would it do to Irowe?

  
“Did he tell you where the Staff was?” Ancano waited a few seconds for him to respond. “The Staff of Magnus?” He probed.

  
Amuril shook himself from his musings. “No. I don’t think either of them knows.”

  
“Someone must. It was here, a few decades ago.”

  
The third mer sighed. “I’d wager one of their ‘apprentices’ went and lost it, or destroyed it.”

  
“It can’t be destroyed.” Ancano snapped. “It _was_ here. Find out where it went.”

  
“The Psijic might know. They know things-”

  
“ _No._ Watch him at the inn but do _not_ approach him. He could be dangerous.”

  
The other two mer shifted but after a moment agreed. Amuril shrank back. Quaranir was staying at the inn in town? It was a small comfort. Psijics tended to shy away from the messier events in history, no matter how small. If he was still here, perhaps there was still time to ‘mitigate’ the disaster.

  
Amuril’s eyes widened. That must be what Quaranir and the Augur were referring to: he was the only one sympathetic to the College who had knowledge of Ancano’s intentions. The Augur did say to take ‘this knowledge’ to the Arch-Mage. Ancano was looking for the Staff of Magnus and trying to move the Eye, and if the Arch-Mage knew this, he could put a stop to it.

  
“Search the Arcanaeum, and the records. Find out when it was last here and anything important that happened afterward. Bring anything you find to me. Now go.”

  
“For the Glory of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

  
“For the Glory of the Aldmeri Dominion.” Amuril echoed.

  
The other mer left and Amuril followed. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but at least they were headed back out for the better lit corridor. Ancano wasn’t behind him when he looked, which made sense. He doubted these agents wanted to be seen around Ancano, given the political climate of Winterhold and eastern Skyrim, and the tenuous invitation Ancano himself had from the Arch-Mage. He wondered what pretense they were here on: traveling mages like him? Scholars studying the arcane? Students even?

  
Estormo trailed his hand along the glacier’s left wall, his fingers disappearing into a crack. Estormo stopped and slipped into the fissure, disappearing from sight. The other mer followed. Amuril stopped and looked around: Ancano must have gone back to the College above and, well, Amuril was curious where this went.

  
He cast Muffle and stepped sideways into the crack. It was a tight fit - he doubted anyone of generous weight could slip through here, and he couldn’t see where he was going. A chill wind whistled down the fissure and he shuddered. Amuril grit his teeth and walked faster. His left hand left ice and then he was out in the open air, on a long ledge overlooking the ice fields.

  
He could barely see the moons on either side of the ledge’s walls, Masser on his right and Secunda trailing Magnus on his left. The skies were too clouded to see the stars but he could see the see and the gleaming ice for leagues and leagues. There was a certain natural beauty to the seascape, but two dark figures on the glacier below caught his eye.

  
Amuril got down and peered over the edge: Estormo and the other agent. So they levitated their way up and down to the Midden to meet with Ancano? He wondered how the Arch-Mage would feel about that. Amuril crept back to the fissure and looked around, noting the landmarks he could see so he could tell them exactly where this ledge was.

  
Once he had a good idea of where the Nordic ruin was and the pear shaped iceberg to his right, he climbed back through the fissure. Amuril cast a Candlelight and squinted up at the bridge above. Would it be easier to try finding his way in the Midden or should he follow the other agents and just walk back to the College through the main gate-

  
“Master Malcior.” Amuril jumped and turned around. Ancano blinked slowly, almost looking bored. “How long is your unit staying in Winterhold?”

  
Amuril cleared his throat. “We have orders to return to the Embassy in the morning, now that we know your status.”

  
“Yes...” Ancano murmured.

  
Amuril swallowed. Did he suspect something, or was he merely showing disdain for the Emissaries’ methods? They stayed there, studying each other, a lot longer than Amuril felt was necessary. Ancano exhaled and withdrew a bound and sealed envelope from his robes, with the interlocking lemniscates sigil of the Thalmor Council pushed deep into the wax. So that part was true at least, he did report directly to the Council.

  
“Take this to the Ambassador. I expect a response no later than three days.”

  
“Yes sir.” Amuril nodded.

  
When Ancano didn’t move Amuril pocketed the letter and cast Levitation, giving a small sigh of relief when he reached the bridge that Ancano didn’t do the same. Amuril hurried toward the gaping dark of the Midden, only taking the letter out to examine it again when he was at the door past the macabre skeletal shrine.

  
A normal envelope, he would slice the seams on the edge and pull the letter out sideways, leaving the seal intact. This envelope however, had string on all sides and the wax seal where the string crossed. So it would be obvious if it was tampered with. Anyone close to the Thalmor Council who was paranoid enough to do that, he wouldn’t put it past Ancano to have some trap in the seal if anyone but Elenwen opened it.

  
Amuril grimaced and returned it to his pocket. He could see that it ‘accidentally’ was left behind in his quarters where someone could find it, hold onto it (not his first option) or do the risky thing and give it to the Arch-Mage. From what he understood, Ancano would be forced to leave if the Arch-Mage rescinded his invitation, and he didn’t need to give a reason why. He could turn it over on the caveat they not reveal it, at least until he retired and they had Melucar...

  
He climbed grimy stairs and shook his head. He and Irowe had their own ‘end of the world’ disaster to take care of, and they were the only ones that could. They couldn’t afford to get caught up in a minor crisis, even if it did echo Rhuusa Gau’s massacre, but he would help where he could. Aedra willing, be gone or retired before any repercussions came. Someone else at the College of Winterhold - Tolfdir, Master Ervine, or the Arch-Mage himself - could see to this.


	21. The Best Intentions

> _"This is the menace that the Thalmor represent! They are cruel and merciless, but they are no fools! They are devious and subtle, and so very patient."_
> 
> _\-- Lathenil of Sunhold_

* * *

  
MORNING found the Malciors sleeping in until - paradoxically - it was too warm to remain in bed, sometime after the magicka wells chimed ten. Amuril, never one to be bullied by the world outside, rolled over and curled up next to Irowe, sticking his leg out so he wasn’t so warm. She grumbled and peeled a fur off, pushing it onto his legs and only making him hotter. Amuril sighed, pushing and kicking at the blankets to get comfortable. He just wanted to sleep in a real bed where his feet weren’t hanging off the foot for a little while longer-

  
Someone cleared their throat in the doorway. Amuril froze. Hopefully he could pretend to be asleep and rest in peace a few more minutes. Then he realized no one kicks _that_ much in their sleep, and peered over the blanket. Fallon was standing just inside the room with a tray of food.

  
Irowe caught scent of it and sat up, rearranging a fur like a shawl and stumbling out of bed. She blinked down at the assortment and grabbed a jazbay crostata, mumbling ‘thank you’ through the pastry before retreating to bed.

  
Fallon brought the tray over to the endtable nearest Amuril; Amuril ignored it and burrowed deeper under the blankets. Irowe patted Amuril’s hip, rubbing harder when he didn’t move. Eating breakfast meant admitting it was time - well past time - to be up.

  
“There’s a spread of breakfast food, but they’re starting to take it away and bring out the lunch dishes so I brought you some, before it’s gone. There’s tea, wine, mead, even coffee-”

  
“Coffee?”

  
Amuril pushed the blanket back and sat up. Fallon held out a mug of the blessed drink and he took it, rubbing his fingers against the metal. Stars, the warmth felt good, and he could see Fallon added enough cream to turn it white, just the way he liked it. Amuril held it to his nose and sipped, immediately curling his lip in disgust.

  
“Something wrong?”

  
“Oh, it’s _old_.” Amuril carped. At least it was heavily sweetened with honey, but he was almost mad that Fallon wasted perfectly good honey trying to make this sludge drinkable. Clearly, whoever made this pot didn’t know how to make coffee, or when to pour it out.

  
“I’m sorry. I- I can make you some-”

  
“ _Fallon._ ” Amuril waved his hand dismissively. “It’s drinkable, and it’s still coffee. I’ll survive.”

  
Fallon nodded but stood uneasily at the side of the bed. Amuril glanced over at the tray, brimming with food, and tucked his feet underneath him, patting the foot of the bed.

  
“Sit and eat. There’s more than enough for all three of us.”

  
Fallon’s eyes went wide. “I- I can pack away what you don’t eat. It’s not a problem-”

  
“Fallon, I insist. We can share.” Amuril gestured to the tray.

  
Irowe laid her hand on Amuril’s sleeve. “Amuril, if he doesn’t want to, don’t force him to.”

  
When he looked at her she inclined her head toward Fallon before wiping her fingers on his bed robes. Amuril frowned at her but watched Fallon. His shoulders were folded in and his face pensive. Now that he looked for it, the young mer looked very uncomfortable at the thought of sharing breakfast with them. Not that Amuril could imagine why, but if he didn’t want to, he didn’t have to. He thought Fallon understood that, but apparently not.

  
“You’re welcome to share if you _want_ to.” Amuril clarified, reaching for an orange.

  
He wondered why Irowe of all people picked up on Fallon’s discomfort before he did. Normally she was the one stepping on the young Bosmer’s toes. Perhaps the dragons were helping her, pointing out small tics and behaviors. It was the only explanation he could think of.

  
“I... I better not.” Fallon said at last. “Fruit doesn’t sit well with me.”

  
Amuril stopped peeling the orange and stared at Fallon. Now that he thought of it, he’d never seen the mer eating fruit - or vegetables. At least not by themselves. He added them in for Irowe’s and his meals, but Fallon’s was always mainly meat and cheeses, with any fruits or vegetables making up only a small portion of his plate.

  
“I’m sorry.” Amuril said, more as an apology for not noticing sooner.

  
“When are we leaving?” Irowe asked, changing the subject.

  
Amuril sighed, popping an orange slice into his mouth. “Once we know where this tower of yours is.”

  
“Mages are always sticking their noses in _Dwarven_ ruins.” He scowled at her. She grinned. He mouthed ‘Dwemer’ and she rolled her eyes. “There must be records of expeditions or the like. A map at the very least.”

  
Amuril nodded. “That would be in the Arcan... aeum...”

  
She nodded, sucking jam off her fingers. “Well, we can stop off there before heading out-”

  
“Irowe. Ancano’s mer will be there, searching for the Staff.”

  
They discussed this dilemma last night, whispering under the sheets in case anyone was eavesdropping. Irowe suggested using this ‘Ethereal’ Shout to try and get the letter out without breaking the seals, but Amuril refused. They had no way of getting the letter back in the envelope afterwards - although Irowe insisted that was perfect as it looked like Ancano look like an idiot for sending an envelope with no letter.

  
“Then we pretend we’re helping.” Irowe said with a shrug. When he shook his head and exhaled not-so-quietly she smacked his shoulder. “Amuril, how smart can they be? They’re spying on a _mages college_ in _Skyrim_ of all places. You know Skyrim is the equivalent of ten years latrine-duty: how incompetent are they to have been sent _here?_ ”

  
Fallon smothered a cough that sounded very much like a laugh. Amuril frowned at both of them. “They’re competent enough they haven’t been caught.”

  
Regardless, it didn’t change that they still needed to go to the College’s library for information. They just had to stay out of sight of Ancano’s mer and leave the College as soon as possible. Somehow while they were doing that, he needed to inform someone - one of the masters, or the Master Wizard or Arch-Mage - about Ancano’s plans.

  
“Irowe, we’ll go to the Arcanaeum and find out where this Alftand is. We stay out of sight and we _don’t_ draw attention to ourselves. Fallon, can you pack up our things?”

  
Fallon nodded. “Of course. It’ll be ready when you get back- or I can meet you at the main gate.”

  
“Oh no, wait in here. It’s freezing outside, I’m sure.” Amuril frowned and waved his hand.

  
Fallon kept nodding and left to pack his own things, giving them the chance to get dressed. Irowe sighed and dug through her pack to find clean garments. Amuril finished his orange and peeled his bed robes off, balling them up and tucking them into his laundry duffel. In a few minutes they polished off most of the breakfast tray and put all their belongings on the bed where Fallon could find them easily.

  
Amuril helped Irowe up the stairs to the roof. The late morning was windy and brisk, but they had bundled up for the weather - Irowe more so due to the scars. He reached for the Arcanaeum’s door handle and stopped. He couldn’t be sure that Ancano’s mer knew what he looked like but it was wiser not to risk it. All they knew about Irowe, that he knew of, was that she was an Altmer and his wife.

  
“Irowe. Your concealment spell.”

  
Her eyes - the only visible part of her body - narrowed. “I _am_ using it, thank you for noticing.”

  
Amuril rolled his eyes and pulled her aside. He wasn’t so blind he couldn’t tell the difference between her scarred face and the Illusion. He couldn’t see it - he was an Alteration Master first and foremost, and the two schools were diametrically opposed - but he _was_ familiar with what her face looked like when she slept, when the spell wasn’t cast.

  
“Can you use it to appear to be another race? Dunmer or Nord?”

  
Irowe put one hand on her hip and counted off on the other. “One: I’m insulted you think I can’t. Two: that’s what everyone else uses it for.”

  
“Do so. I’m going to speak with the Arch-Mage.” ‘About Ancano’ didn’t need to be said.

  
“Have fun.” She said, giving him a thin smile.

  
Amuril exhaled, trying to shake the tension out of his arms and neck. He knew better than to wish his stomach could be quieted so easily. When he looked up, Irowe had grey skin and bright eyes red through and through. He stopped and stared at her, feeling the prickle at the back of his neck that she looked... off. She would still pass for a Dunmer but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what looked wrong: he didn’t know many Dunmer.

  
Irowe opened the door and let him slip inside. Amuril watched her walk into the library, noting how crowded it was. Amuril frowned. It was... it was about that abysmal time of year for midterms, wasn’t it? That explained the tables piled high with towers of books surrounding charcoal-smeared, tear-stained faces. Amuril grimaced. One part of college life he _didn’t_ miss.

  
Once he shut the door to the stairs, the stairwell was quiet. He wasn’t trying to be loud but his boots echoed up and down the stone walls, and outside he could hear the chill winds blowing off the sea. It was unnervingly quiet. He began to worry the Arch-Mage _wasn’t_ in his Quarters. How could he go about searching for him - or Master Ervine or Tolfdir - without attracting attention? Amuril knocked at the door: there was no reply. He didn’t even know where was best to start looking-

  
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice called out from the Quarters. “We are in a meeting and the Arch-Mage is not to be disturbed. If you need an extension, talk to your school’s master.”

  
A woman’s voice? Master Ervine. Amuril relaxed, for a moment. “I apologize, but this is urgent.”

  
“Oh very well...” The Arch-Mage sighed.

  
He heard the faintest chime of magicka and a click as the door unlocked. An open spell? He hadn’t seen those since Alinor.

  
Amuril pushed the door open and laid a hand on the edge as he closed it to muffle the sound. The Arch-Mage and Master Wizard were curled up at a table surrounded by dozens of journals and three abacuses. Amuril cleared his throat and stood a few paces from the table, but close enough he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. He didn’t want to chance anyone eavesdropping, but he wanted a fair bit of warning if things went south.

  
Savos’ eyes lit up as he recognized their visitor. “Oh. Our Psijic friend.” He smiled over at Master Ervine.

  
Amuril nodded. “I need to speak with you, about Ancano.”

  
Savos’ shoulders slumped and he rubbed at his eyes. Mirabelle’s eyes narrowed.

  
“Three, what has he done now?” Savos sighed.

  
Amuril’s mouth hung open as he tried to think of a way to word what he was doing. He cleared his throat again.

  
“First, I... I would like to explain that I am trying to help you. I believe that is what Quaranir intended by coming here and asking for me personally. And second, my wife and I are leaving as soon as possible so we won’t be bothering you further.”

  
“Alright...”

  
“Ancano has been out of contact with the Thalmor Embassy for three months. The Thalmor Ambassador ordered myself and my wife to investigate why. I stumbled into a meeting between him and his two associates- ah: an ‘Estormo’ and another mer, I wasn’t given a name. Ancano requested that my wife and I return to the Embassy immediately and send reinforcements within three days - wizards trained in teleportation spells - so they can move the Eye to Alinor. He also gave me this-”

  
“What Eye?” Savos questioned. Mirabelle laid a hand on the letter and Amuril relinquished it. She turned it over, casting a series of spells to reveal any traps.

  
“The Eye of Magnus?” Amuril offered. Savos shook his head. “The orb, downstairs.”

  
Mirabelle flicked out a thin knife and sliced the twine around the letter, then the left seam of the envelope. She set the knife down and pried the letter out, pulling a pair of spectacles from her pocket. She glanced up at Amuril. “Go on.”

  
Amuril nodded and took a step back. “The Augur said you would need the Staff of Magnus to stop him, and to tell you, Arch-Mage, explicitly.” He gestured to Savos.

  
Mirabelle’s breath hitched at something she read. When Amuril looked back to Savos, the Dunmer was wan and frozen staring at the far wall. He finally shook himself into reaching for his tea, but couldn’t bring himself to drink.

  
“Ancano’s mer are searching the Arcanaeum and the records for any sign of where it may have disappeared to.”

  
Mirabelle exhaled and folded the letter up, handing it to Savos. She tapped his shoulder with it when he didn’t move. Savos stirred and took it, barely glancing at the words.

  
“They won’t find anything. Arch-Mage Deneth made sure of that...” He said quietly. Savos rubbed his face, and it looked like the years had suddenly caught up with the greying mer. “It’s well and truly lost, and for everyone’s sake, it’s best it _remains_ that way.”

  
Amuril blinked. The Staff of Magnus wasn’t a dangerous artifact - it had the power to be abused like any other object of power but it wasn’t something best forgotten like some Daedric relics. The Staff had passed through his family before, in the Second Era: the first Malcior, Carronudil, retrieved it for the First Aldmeri Dominion from a lich in Valenwood, though that was all he remembered of the family tale. That was the reason the monarchy _gave_ them a family name, after all, something his aunts never shut up about.

  
It was nowhere near as dangerous as Savos was making it sound, but this wasn’t his problem, and he wasn’t going to argue.

  
“Then you will have to find some other means of stopping him. As I stated earlier, we are leaving as soon as we are ready.”

  
“Why?” Mirabelle asked sharply.

  
Amuril blinked. “It would be suspicious if we stayed-?”

  
“No.” She shook her head and clarified. “If you _are_ Thalmor, why are you doing this? What reason do we have to believe you?”

  
“You’re either lying or you’re _very_ stupid.” Savos muttered, setting the letter down on the table.

  
Amuril shifted his feet, sensing that his trustworthiness was being measured and both sides were equally weighted. The silence dragged on, with only the quiet chime of the garden magelights breaking the stillness.

  
“My word, Quaranir’s, and the Augur’s.” Amuril said at last. “Quaranir said I was the only one who could 'mitigate the aftermath', and I take that to mean I am the only one at this college who could warn you of Ancano's plans. But I will leave you to decide what to do with this information. If you’ll excuse me.”

  
He bowed, gauging their reaction or lack of one, then walked back to the door and down the stairs. He hadn’t been up here long, Irowe was probably just starting to search whatever section they had on Dwemer-

  
“Master Malcior.” Mirabelle padded down the stairs until she was eye-level with him. “You're serious, about helping us?”

  
“Within reason, but if we aren’t gone soon or they'll begin to suspect something.”

  
“A group of Synod researchers came here a year ago, asking about the Staff of Magnus. They were very secretive about the whole thing but I happen to know they left for Mzulft. It’s possible they thought the Staff was... there...” She frowned and tilted her head. “Is something wrong?”

  
Everything was wrong.

  
“It's- it's Dwemeris for a- a production site.” He licked his lips and prayed she didn’t notice the sweat beading on his forehead, or the pounding in his chest. “I’ve... I’ve been in similar ruins.”

  
“Perfect. You'll have a better chance than anyone else at finding the researchers - or the Staff - in there.”

  
“Master Ervine, if we aren't at or near the Embassy in three days...”

  
She tried to look concerned. It was still obvious she wasn’t. Amuril’s shoulders slumped. Why should she care if they were reprimanded or punished for helping them? They were Thalmor: no matter where he went, that was all anyone ever saw.

  
He sighed and thought it over. Most Dwemer expeditions - if successful - were publicized throughout the academic and Dwemer-minded circles: circles he avoided after Rhuusa Gau. He didn’t exactly enjoy Markarth as it reminded him too much of Rkumzuleft, but he sometimes wandered into Calcelmo’s Dwemer museum or found himself chatting with the renowned mer or his nephew. If there had been a major Dwemer discovery in Skyrim, Calcelmo would have brought it up last autumn.

  
Amuril frowned. If it had been a year with no real news from the site, it had been unsuccessful. Whether that meant the researchers had been killed by animunculi or simply not found anything of note, he couldn’t tell. It would be obvious from looking at the entrance, but that required _going there_ , and _that_ would make Irowe even more irate than usual about this dragon business.

  
Amuril bit his lip. If they investigated Mzulft, wherever it was (although likely somewhere in old Dwemereth, in eastern Skyrim) that would add a few days onto their journey. However, they could use that extra time to concoct some story about being waylaid by Stormcloaks, bandits or bears. Stormcloaks would be best, they just needed to kill a bear; Fallon knew how to make an officer’s pelt and they could stain it with blood to ‘prove’ they’d been in a fight.

  
That might soothe Irowe enough to get them on the road to this Mzulft. And odds were the Synod were long gone: that particular vestige of the Mages Guild never had the stomach for proper expeditions. They would go to Mzulft, see that the Synod had already left, and that would be that.

  
“We will go to Mzulft and look for the Synod and the Staff. If they _aren’t_ there, we are not going in looking for it. I’ll send word that we couldn’t find it if the Synod is gone.”

  
Mirabelle opened her mouth to retort but Amuril kept his face firm. He wasn’t going back into a mzulft. He was the only one of their group that had a chance of navigating a Dwemer ruin and he would be no help inside that particular type of ruin. And Irowe’s method of ‘run in and trash the place’ would only attract every animunculi in existence. Given it was a production site, that could be thousands.

  
Mirabelle sighed. “Very well. I suppose that’s the best you can do, given the circumstances. We should have a map of Dwemer ruins in the Arcanaeum. I’m sure Urag would let you use it.”

  
“Thank you.” Amuril nodded. He wasn’t going to volunteer that Irowe was no doubt already looking at it, provided she hadn’t aggravated the library staff.

  
Mirabelle turned and went back to the Arch-Mage’s Quarters. Amuril continued down the steps and pushed the door to the Arcanaeum open, keeping to the outer rim of bookshelves. He kept looking for Ancano’s mer but didn’t see any other Altmer. They could be invisible for all he knew. Amuril swallowed and glanced at the shelves. General studies. History. Reference- reference. That’s where the maps would be.

  
He turned into a small cove of shelves, where a lone Dunmer bent over a map - _Catalogue of Dwemer Ruins in Skyrim, c. 4E 147_ \- nearly as large as the table. When she looked up at him her lips curled from a pout to a smile.

  
“I’ve got it. _And_ it’s nearby.” She pulled him over and pointed to a small tower symbol nestled in the Winterhold Mountains north of Wayward Pass. “I made a copy so we don’t have to carry this bulky old thing.” She made a face and lifted up one edge of the map.

  
Amuril rubbed his face. No, they were not _stealing_ a map from the College of Winterhold. She didn’t used to suffer from kleptomania, before the dragons started giving her ideas. Well, much: she still had trouble understanding what was hers and what wasn’t but she never outright stole things before.

  
Amuril sighed and searched the index on the map’s right corner for the ruin Master Ervine spoke of. “We need to find another ruin.”

  
Irowe huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “What? Alftand is the one we need-”

  
“We need a different one. I’ll explain later.”

  
His eyes caught a solitary ruin in the Velothis, due east of Bonestrewn Crest, the crumbling mount rising from the hot springs in southern Eastmarch. Mzulft, and it was just on the edge of the old Dwemeris borders. That must be it: Dwemer rarely felt the need to clarify _which_ mzulft they were talking about. They could go to Mzulft, see the Synod were not there, and turn around and reach Alftand before the day was out If they took the pass. There would be some sort of fortification - a storeroom or a tower - where they could shelter for the night before entering the tower proper.

  
Amuril took Irowe’s crude map and added the Velothis and Bonestrewn Crest to it, then a small Dwemer tower for Mzulft. Irowe leaned over his shoulder, snorted, then slid the larger parchment out from underneath her journal. Amuril added rough outlines of the roads and the pass, something Irowe forgot to do. He wondered if that was her dragons’ fault, just going off their memory of flying over the mountains and rivers of Skyrim-

  
She laughed and smacked him with the rolled-up map before returning it to a square cubby. “Come on, old mer. It’s getting late and we need to get moving.”

  
Amuril couldn’t move. A thousand memories, unbidden, surfaced of a young Redguard with tightly curled hair. Laughing. Tossing something at him, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him skip a step. Always the same endearing term as he laughed and directed his attention elsewhere. _Old Man._

  
Irowe had stopped, he was vaguely aware of that. He could feel tears in his eyes and inhaled to try and hold them back. Amuril looked up at her, lost. They had the same laugh, the same sense of humor, her and Benji. Now that he forced himself to remember, he remembered...

  
“What’s wrong?” Irowe asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  
“Nothing-”

  
“Amuril, you’re very pale and you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

  
“I...” He swallowed. He’d never told her, both because of her father’s family and because of his shame. She knew he left Alinor in the early Fourth and she knew he fought for the Dominion in the war, but he’d never told her what happened between those dates other than he studied abroad. He never wanted to share that with anyone.

  
“We need to leave.” Amuril forced out at last.

  
He pushed away from the table and wiped his eyes, then hurried with her for the exit. They would go to Mzulft but they would not go in. They would go to Alftand and make up some story about Stormcloaks attacking, getting lost, something. Anything. He wasn’t losing Irowe the way he lost Benji. The College would be fine either way, his part of this ‘portents’ business done, but he wasn’t losing anyone else, not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Carro' (Carroundil) is my bro's toon on my ESO account (he doesn't play much anymore so Carro's collecting a bit of dust, lol. He might pop back on to make a ~~druid~~ excuse me, _warden_ for Vvardenfell.) We made Carro specifically to be a Malcior and after talking history/ESO over decided that Carro was the 'first' Malcior.
> 
> Also my bro did the Greenshade AD quest with the Staff and demanded I mention it somewhere because it's very relevant. :D


	22. A Light in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeyyy so guess who got a sweet job and buried under real life stuff during yet another big revision? 
> 
> Also I tried revising this chapter and it got twice as long I apologize!! (Consider it twice as long as a normal chapter to make up for taking 2 weeks, hehe..)

>   _Scholars of the ancient Dwemer believe the buried city of Mzulft was built as some sort of vast dedicated manufacturing site - but dedicated to what, no one is quite sure. Based on the number of traps and constructs defending it, the Dwarves clearly considered it vital._

* * *

  
MIDDAY found the three mer trekking south through the only habitably warm area north of the Jeralls this late in winter. Fallon shifted in his saddle and looked over his shoulder at Irowe. She was glowering at everything and nothing in particular, pointedly refusing to look in Amuril’s direction.

  
Fallon turned back to watch Amuril, thinking back on how he acted when they stopped for lunch. Amuril was acting like a ghost of himself: barely eating, staring off into space - well, more than usual - and only answering when Irowe called his name twice.

  
Whatever it was, it happened in the Arcanaeum while he was packing up, and neither of them were talking about it, leaving him in the dark. It looked like they were fighting again. Something big. Over the dragons then, probably that they were ‘taking so long’ to work on finding this Elder Scroll.

  
Fallon eyed the dark clouds that hung in the air, threatening to snow - or more likely rain: they were in the brimstone pools and it never snowed there. His gaze sloped down the Velothi Mountains to the lopsided slabs of rock overturned in the road, steam hissing out of the vents. The heat underground was cracking the surface, and as far as he knew the road had always been like this.

  
Amuril started fussing with what looked like a child’s map and looking around at the mountains, mumbling to himself. Irowe walked her horse up to join his, and Fallon turned to watch the road behind them. A glint of metal behind a bend in the rocks caught his eye. It wasn’t the flash of iron or steel, it almost looked... gold.

  
“I don’t understand it. It should be right-”

  
“What is that?” Fallon murmured.

  
Irowe looked over at him, followed his gaze, and prodded her mount to investigate. Amuril followed, gave a soft ‘ah’, and Fallon knew they’d found what they were looking for. The path through the mountains was small, tight enough that his heels brushed rock on either side more than once. Every now and then there were short square pillars, with a bronze dome on top and strange symbols carved down every side. The twisting fissure gave way to a series of stairs and carved square arches.

  
There was rubble on the ground that had been cleared away in the last few months, enough to let a small horse-cart through. There were larger boulders in some places that the horses stepped over. Someone had been through recently, but the larger group hadn’t come or gone in weeks. Fallon rested his hand on his dagger. He wondered why whoever was up ahead hadn’t bothered with say, food deliveries or extra supplies in a few weeks.

  
The arches led to a small ledge with a collection of short square buildings with bronze doors, tightly packed with wide walkways in front and slim ones all around. There wasn’t any sign of the people who had cleared the road. Further up the stairs there were tiered balconies and towers hewn into the rockface, all trimmed with the same bronze as the road marks and the doors.

  
Amuril dismounted and walked up to a small building next to what was undoubtedly an entrance. He tied his reins around a thin pipe; Irowe and Fallon did the same. Fallon gave the horses their feed bags, making sure they were full before joining the Malciors in poking around.

  
Amuril hung back from the main door, just staring up at the imposing cold metal. Irowe walked forward and pushed it open, a warm draft sighing out that smelled like-

  
Fallon gagged. The air was stale and tasted metallic, and it- it almost had that tongue-bittering taste of burnt air but it didn’t have that scent. Inside it was dark, barely illuminated by glowing crystal sconces on the walls. Not that it mattered: all he could see was pipes, gears, and another heavy door just out of the sunlight.

  
And a trail of blood leading to a mage’s body propped against the door.

  
“Amuril!” Irowe cried and ran forward.

  
The mage - astonishingly still alive - grabbed his chest as a wet cough racked his frame. Irowe cast a potent healing spell at his chest and it bloomed brighter than sunlight. She swore and pressed her hand against the brightest spot and the man cried out.

  
“I’m sorry. I can’t deaden this-” She started to unclip her belt when Fallon held out a scrap of leather. She rolled it up and held it to the mage’s mouth. “ _Bite._ ”

  
The mage did as he was told. Irowe put both hands over the blood-soaked part of his robes and poured magicka in. The mage lashed out mindlessly before gaining some shred of composure and balled his fists at his side. Amuril knelt next to him and tried to add his own healing spell, until Irowe swatted his hands away.

  
Fallon slid his pack off. He didn’t have any magicka, didn’t know any healing spells, but he did have some potions in his pack if any of them needed them. He set the bag of potions on the ground, digging out blue phials and red ones. Amuril uncorked a slim blue one and the label ‘regeneration’ fluttered to the ground.

  
The golden light died down, though the mage was still breathing heavily. Irowe waved her hand over his body three times then sat back on her heels. Amuril handed her the potion and rolled up his sleeves.

  
Irowe groaned and shook her head. “Save your magicka.”

  
Amuril relented, giving the man a health potion instead. Fallon looked between the two Altmer and the mage lying on the ground, the entire front of his robes bloody and a slice of tan skin showing through the blue fabric.

  
“Is he going to die?”

  
Irowe shook her head. “No, he’s saturated. He’s- his body’s ‘bottle’ of magicka is ‘full’ and adding more won’t help, it just wastes your reserves.” She sipped at the magicka potion. “Can you talk? We’ll need to wait a moment before my magicka comes back...”

  
“What’s your name? And what happened?” Amuril asked.

  
The mage grimaced and tried to get comfortable against the wall. “Gavros, and uh, Falmer. Ambush. I ran...” He winced and held his side. “Right into a sphere and it nearly gutted me... kept running.”

  
Amuril fidgeted with his sleeves. “Are you with the Synod?”

  
Gavros stiffened. “You’re not?”

  
“No. Ah- Master Ervine at the College of Winterhold told us you were here.”

  
He scoffed. “Well, I’m very glad she did. Of course, if she’d just told us where it was we wouldn’t need to _be here_ , but...” Gavros lapsed into silence, probably thinking not-kind thoughts about the graying Breton woman back at the College.

  
“What _are_ you doing here?” Amuril asked softly.

  
“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you, so... I guess I can tell you the official report.” He said that, but Gavros eyed the three mer like he barely meant it. What did he have to be so paranoid about? They just saved his _life_. “We came here to deliver a... a focusing crystal. The Binder’s Conclave took weeks to get the enchantments right. But on the way to the oculory the Falmer ambushed us. They took the crystal.”

  
“You’re alive. Crystals can be replaced.” Irowe remarked, taking another swig of the potion.

  
Gavros shook his head. “Not this one. I can’t go back to Oronrel and tell him I lost it, or that the others died. They’ll cancel the expedition. I can’t-”

  
“Easy.” Irowe warned him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  
Gavros panted and tried to sit up but settled for his previous seat half-lounging against the wall. He patted his side and, when that was too painful, rested his hand on his hip.

  
“Paratus is still in the Oculory. At least his team should be. We only left him and a skeleton crew to... guard the main site.”

  
Irowe tilted her head like a hawk. “How far?”

  
“Irowe.”

  
Gavros ignored the look Amuril was giving Irowe. “It’s not far, and I know the way, but the Falmer are everywhere. There’s too many, and the constructs aren’t enough to drive them back.”

  
“Amuril, we could make it if he knows the way.”

  
“I _have to_ go in.” Gavros added, his eyes wide and pleading. “I have to find the crystal. Please go with me.”

  
Fallon quietly, slowly, put the potions they weren’t using back in his bag. Irowe was oblivious - or maybe she just didn’t care - and Amuril was...

  
Fallon snuck a glance at him. Maybe he wasn’t really worried about Irowe or fighting with her, as much as he was worried about whatever was behind those doors. He kept looking at them, never more than a second, with a look that he normally had when he was about to lose his lunch. What could possibly be in there that would scare Amuril so badly?

  
“You’re putting off your own delve.” Amuril murmured at last in Altmeris, his gaze flicking between her and the door.

  
Irowe shrugged. “This would be practice.”

  
He looked at her, then the door again, and exhaled. “Very well. Fallon, help me put the horses in one of those storerooms. I don’t want them wandering off. Make sure he’s ready.” Amuril pointed to Irowe.

  
Fallon followed him out of the antechamber and ran ahead to untie the horses. Amuril looked around and opened the nearest building. The horses did not want to enter - the pipes gurgled and the gears were so loud - but between the two of them they managed to get all three inside and shut the door behind them. Fallon unslung his bow case and slipped his leg inside the curve to string it-

  
“No. Save your arrows for the Falmer. I-” Amuril snapped his fingers and slipped inside the storeroom. A few moments later he came back with a pair of shimmering red Dwarven axes.

“Here. Use these against the animunculi. Just- just smash the joints, the moving parts, and watch yourself. They move _very_ fast.”

  
Fallon nodded and set them down, securing the bow case. He studied Amuril, who was lost staring at the bronze head overlooking the main gate.

  
“Are you alright?” Fallon asked quietly.

  
Amuril blinked and looked down at him, then the ground. “No. But we’ll be fine. Everyone is coming out of this alive. I’m going to make sure of it.”

  
With that he walked back to the main entrance. Fallon cocked his head and watched him. Why... would he be concerned somebody might die? They fought dragons what seemed like every month, and that was terrifying enough on its own. So there might be Dwarven undead or whatever in there: they’d made it through that one tomb with little more than scratches. They were going to be fine.

  
As he walked under the scowling metal head of a long dead Dwarf however, Fallon couldn’t help but feel maybe the bust - and Amuril - knew something he didn’t.

  
In the antechamber Irowe had helped Gavros to his feet, although he was leaning on her heavily and holding his side. He likely wouldn’t be any help in a fight, mostly just an extra body that needed defending. Fallon kept that to himself though: the Malciors either already knew and accepted it, or were too polite to point it out.

  
“If you know where the traps and animunculi are, that would be immensely helpful.” Amuril said, casting Bound Armor spells on himself and Gavros. Gavros swallowed and nodded.

  
Fallon checked the axes, testing their weight and how fast he could swing them. They had a good reach but were still a little shorter than he’d like. His skin flashed purple and a full set of ghostly magic armor cocooned him. Fallon held his arms out and turned them over, it looked like Daedric armor which - while heavy, could take an ungodly amount of hits. Fallon swallowed. So Amuril expected him to get hit a lot; that wasn’t comforting.

  
When they were all ready Gavros unlocked the door and they entered the ruin proper. Which wasn’t really a ruin - it was cleaner than most Altmeri houses if a little dark, there just wasn’t any people. Fallon tried to imagine what it would look like with people, and how many could fit in the modest corridors. They passed rooms and laboratories, but he couldn’t figure out what they were for: everything looked like it had been looted or had piles of various junk nestled in corners from previous adventurers who either forgot their spoils, or had to leave them behind.

  
And there were traps everywhere. Spears that shot from the ceiling when Irowe stepped on a floor tile. Steam that hissed out of pipes if they detected movement. Holes in the walls that shot poisoned darts when they walked by. Gavros pointed them out in enough time for them to avoid them, but for most of them the only way forward was through the traps.

  
They entered a larger room and Fallon’s ears prickled. Barely noticeable over the hiss of steam and churning gears, there was a faint clicking noise. And another. And another. Amuril stiffened and put a hand on Irowe’s shoulder, then summoned a flame atronach. The clicking was getting closer-

  
A metal blur launched itself at the atronach’s face and it shrieked, wheeling away from them as more metal things clawed at its body. Frost spells shot out as the three mages aimed for the things they could see. Fallon stayed in front of Amuril and Irowe, clutching the axes. Spiders. It looked like metal spiders.

  
The atronach screamed and exploded, taking a few spiders with it but the rest turned their attention to their group. Amuril shoved Fallon behind him and summoned another atronach, a frost one this time. It used its wide feet to smash the spiders that scuttled toward it, hurling any that climbed its body into the walls. One crawled between its legs and shot a lightning bolt at Amuril. Fallon smashed it with one axe, and chucked it into the darkness where the atronach turned and crushed it.

  
When the room fell silent again Irowe cast a magelight spell into the darkness, illuminating a few dozen broken shells. No more clicking. Amuril exhaled and patted Fallon’s shoulder. Fallon walked over to one, his axe held out in case it moved, and picked through the bent gears and metal for the small red jewel that caught his eye. A gem of some sort. He walked back and held it out to Amuril.

  
Amuril shook his head. “You keep it. I’m sure there’s more further in.”

  
Fallon shrugged and slipped it in a pouch. He could try selling it later, maybe actually make some money on one of the Malciors’ little excursions.

  
There were more spiders scattered throughout the ruin as well as metal mer with wheels for legs. The frost atronach made short work of all of them, and Fallon picked through the remains for gems while Amuril and the ice giant searched the rooms. Irowe stayed back with Gavros and healed any scrapes, or Gavros when he started panting or holding his side too much.

  
Gavros led them through the compound to a small canyon, a trail of dead mages proving this was the ‘right path’ If he felt any remorse for his friends or fellow mages, he didn’t show it. The sunlight, plants and dirt were a welcome change from the soul gem lamps, metal and stone. Scaffolding dotted the canyon leading up to creamy veins in the rock.

  
“We were mining some of the moonstone here, to try and raise funds for the expedition, pay for a few necessities. Extra tools...” Gavros muttered.

  
The canyon emptied out into a larger cavern with veins lining the walls, with a general camp and mining equipment set up. Amuril and Gavros kept walking but Fallon stopped. Irowe slowed down, hearing it too. A squelching noise from further in.

  
“Amuril-”

  
He shrieked and shot lightning at a dark shape in the mists. A green blob splattered on the atronach’s shoulder and ate through its body until its arm dropped to the ground. The atronach lumbered toward the creeping thing but another spit of venom ate through its right leg and it crashed to the ground. A bug. A _very_ big bug. Fallon aimed for its underbelly and it rasped a screech. There was blood on its mouth.

  
Amuril conjured a sword and pushed past Fallon, shoving the blade through the bug’s head. It clacked its mandibles at his hand but eventually stilled, its multiple legs still twitching. He left the sword in until it dissipated and he whined, shaking his hand.

  
“I _hate_ insects...” Amuril shuddered.

  
Irowe tsked but Fallon kept quiet. What was the point of giving him axes if Amuril wasn’t letting him use them? Not that he was going to complain more than that: if Amuril wanted to hit giant bugs bigger than Fallon with a sword, he was more than welcome to do so. It didn’t even look edible. Its dark segments were heavily armored and it had pincers on its tail like the antler-like mandibles on its mouth. He noted that several spots along the body glowed white-blue, although those were fading.

  
Fallon looked over to a pair of robed legs sticking out of a fern, realizing where the blood on its jaws had come from. Amuril banished the hobbled frost atronach and summoned a storm one. He didn’t even wait for the others before hurrying out of the cavern.

  
Further ahead the Dwemer ruin appeared again, the canyon ending at a courtyard of sorts: the bottom of a pit with the skeletons of unfortunate animals in its center. Four more of the bugs were feasting on the recent carcass of a mammoth. The bugs spat at the storm atronach, but stone and lightning was harder to erode than ice. Between the five of them they made short work of the bugs, though Amuril made a fuss as they crossed the pit to the metal doorway.

  
Inside they ran into more of those spheres. Amuril switched to a frost atronach as the lightning attacks were no threat to the Dwarven automatons. Thankfully there were no more insects, and Fallon was learning where the automatons were weakest so dismembering them got easier, and quicker. They came to a large hall with a lower level lined with metal scuttles and pipes, with a pipe-lined ledge along the left wall to another door.

  
Amuril went first along the narrow ledge, and Fallon second, with Gavros and Irowe in the rear. Amuril and Fallon were alongside the first section of pipes when Fallon stopped. Shifting gears: a sphere automaton up ahead.

  
Amuril put his foot down and something clicked. He threw himself back off the trapped tile as the sphere uncurled ahead of them and charged forward. The tile reset and-

  
Fallon yelled and reached out for anything to hold onto as the pipes shot out of the wall and knocked him to the floor a level below.

  
“Fallon!” Amuril shouted.

  
The sphere was stuck on the far side of the pipes, and Amuril was trapped in the middle with Irowe and Gavros two pipes behind. Clicking noises and scuttles shuttering made Fallon freeze. He looked up and saw spiders crawling out of the pipes on his level.

  
“Shit!”

  
He dodged one zealous spider and took off, not sure where he was running from more than away from the spiders. Fallon ran behind pillars, avoiding the sparks and lightning bolts, but he couldn’t see a way out of this pit. Just more spiders, more and more spiders crawling out of the holes.

  
“Fallon!”

  
The atronach jumped down into the pit and started smashing spiders left and right. Up above the pipes retracted and the sphere charged, forcing Amuril back into Irowe and Gavros. Irowe yelled something and he heard metal breaking, gears grating together. Fallon rolled away from a spider and leapt onto the atronach’s back. It was almost tall enough, he might make the ledge if he jumped-

  
Fallon cried out as his soles slipped on the atronach’s icy shoulders. He was going to fall- the spiders were jumping-

  
His left axe jerked hard. Fallon curled his legs to his chest as the spiders lunged. Irowe yelled, the axe’s heel digging into her arm, but she hauled him up. Fallon grabbed the ledge once it was in reach and let go of the axe, tossing the right one up and pulling himself up. Irowe hissed and held her hand but helped Fallon to his feet. They hurried after Amuril and Gavros, sidestepping what was left of the stuttering sphere.

  
They reached a large room far enough away from the room with pipes and the pit, where Amuril and Gavros stopped to catch their breath. Fallon looked behind them. They weren’t being followed, and he could hear the atronach stomping around, smashing the spiders into smaller, hopefully unrecoverable tiny pieces. Fallon glanced over at Irowe as her hand glowed golden. His breathe caught in his throat. Her hand had been ripped open by the axe. She was bleeding-

  
“Irowe, I-I’m sorry-”

  
“Potion.” She said through grit teeth.

  
Fallon dropped his pack immediately and dug through for the potions. “I’m so sorry-”

  
Gavros screamed. Irowe snapped off a firebolt without thinking and struck a pale red-eyed mer in the chest. It gurgled and grabbed at the smoldering black patch, enough time for Gavros and Amuril to shoot it with enough lightning to send it hurling back into the darkness. The four of them stopped and listened, but heard nothing.

  
“I... hate those things...” Gavros shuddered.

  
“Falmer?” Amuril asked. Gavros nodded and passed a hand over his mouth.

  
“I don’t know how they got in here, we haven’t seen any of them during the excavation but now they’re everywhere.” He shivered. Fallon offered Irowe a health and a magicka potion, and she took the health one. “This was as far as I... as we got the last time, before we started running.”

  
Amuril waited for him to gather himself together and Irowe’s hand to stop bleeding before they all crept forward into the halls. Gavros led them with small nudges and half mumbled words, his eyes always shifting to the darker corners where the pale creatures might be hiding. They continued down the corridor and came to... a doorway blocked by a cave in.

  
Gavros stepped forward and tried to move the smaller rocks. “No. No no no-”

  
“What?” Amuril asked.

  
“No. The- the passage to the aedrome is- it’s blocked off. This cave in...”

  
The group fell silent. Fallon peered back the way they came. He was starting to think there wasn’t anything at the end of this ruin: just more metal spiders and metal mer-on-wheels, and these Falmer things. It wouldn’t be too hard to go back the way they came, as long as Amuril or Gavros remembered the way out. He didn’t even know what time it was, just that it felt like they’d been walking forever.

  
Irowe huffed and tugged Fallon’s sleeve, sending a magelight down the corridor ahead to light the way. Fallon adjusted his grip on the axes and followed close behind her. Irowe would spook if she saw anything, and probably Shout at it, so he stayed out of her way. They didn’t see anything, but the rooms had looked clear before, right before a Dwarven thing crawled out of the walls.

  
“Is there another way?” Amuril asked, trying to console Gavros. Gavros was having none of it, trying to move the rocks.

  
Irowe hemmed and recast the magelight, aiming it at the right wall. The magelight passed through a sliver of crumbled stone, landing on the far side of what looked like a mossy wall. Fallon crept closer to it and sniffed. It was wetter, and a bit colder, and it smelled like those bugs they’d killed back at the moonstone mining camp.

  
“Amuril.” Irowe called back, keeping an eye on the crevice. “This opened up.”

  
“I’ll bet it’s how these Falmer and the bugs are getting through.” Fallon muttered.

  
Amuril brought Gavros over and the two examined it. Gavros cautiously stuck his hand through, then his head. Amuril tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at Irowe.

  
“There might be another cave in, another entryway.” She offered.

  
“Well, we have to try.” Gavros grunted, slipping through between the rocks. His foot disappeared into the cave and Irowe readied a flame spell before following.

  
“Fallon. Bow.” Amuril said, almost half-remembering.

  
Fallon waited for Amuril to go through then squeezed in after him, dropping down to unpack and string his bow once they were on the other side. Bow. Amuril said to save his arrows for the Falmer. Fallon reslung his case and tested the taut of the string, bringing it easily back. He was decent with any weapon he picked up, but he really felt better using a bow.

  
There were no Dwarven machines from here, but Gavros and Amuril both insisted they keep deathly still, whispering that Falmer could ‘see’ better with their ears than most people could with their eyes. Something about them being blind, but they shushed each other before either could explain. At least there were glowing mushrooms here and there, so they didn’t have to rely on magelights and possibly give away their approach.

  
It wasn’t long before they saw one, but they heard it long before it came into view. The slap of bare feet on a stone sent a shiver up his spine. Fallon nocked an arrow-

  
The creature grunted and stared straight at them. Fallon heard someone gasp, it might have been him. The Falmer barked and slipped off the rock, wheezing loudly as, like a shark, it sussed out where they were. It growled and reached for a chitin knife-

  
The sound died in its throat as an arrow sunk into its slitted nostrils. Amuril held his hand out, keeping Fallon back and they stood still. They didn’t hear anything else. Fallon swallowed and stared down at the creature. It had no nose and jagged teeth, and swollen red eyes. It resembled elvenkind, from the long ears, but it looked more monster than mer. Hearing nothing, Fallon retrieved his arrow and they continued on.

  
Sometimes they weren’t so lucky. A few of the Falmer were archers, and in the darkness they were better shots than Fallon. Sometimes they stumbled on a small group of Falmer, sometimes they could see them crowding around purple leather huts. Sometimes they saw legs or an arm sticking out of the huts - one camp had a leg on a crude spit - and the other mer at least waited until they were more than out of earshot to retch.

  
He didn’t know how long they’d been down here, or even where they were in relation to where they’d started. The cave was too organic, too twisting with bends and ups and downs, for him to keep track of it in his head. He was used to being aboveground, or in trees but where he could see pretty much everything.

  
Malalye Ceye, his home village, was in a cave yes, but it was large enough for a small town and very clean, with skylights letting sunlight in. This was dark, and wet, and cold. It was like the Coldharbour version of his hometown, if there was one.

  
Fallon nearly cried when they came across a break in a wall: dull, warm crystal light shone in from above a ledge. When they’d all scaled the wall and crawled through the crevice, Gavros spun around, muttering to himself. He hurried to a door and peeked inside.

  
“This- this is it! This is the boilery!” Gavros whooped with joy. “This- it’s just past this great hall. We’re almost there!”

  
Irowe sighed in relief. Amuril looked like he was going to cry and five minutes later drop into a dead sleep. Fallon couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Finally, they were getting near the end.

  
Gavros led them around giant metal pots of steaming water, through a door flanked by busts of long-dead Dwemer in armor three times their size. He didn’t want to think about how much trouble it would be to get back out, not with the knowledge of being able to sleep at last in relative safety-

  
A small chorus of hisses and grunts echoed over the tattered banners of forgotten Dwarven clans as they came to the great hall. The hall was easily the size of the entire embassy - no, the castle or palace in Solitude.

  
And it was swarming with Falmer.

  
“Stendarr have mercy-”

  
“ _Run!_ ” Amuril yelled, conjuring dual flame atronachs as far away from them as he could. The atronachs immediately loosed a flurry of fireballs- and the Falmer fought back with ice spikes. Fallon paused for a half-moment and stared. They could use _magic-?_

  
“ _Fallon!_ ”

  
Fallon jumped to catch up with them, firing back at the archers on ledges and upper levels. Their return volleys sliced one of his packs, passed through his hair and nicked his arm between his bracer and shoulder pad. Fallon hissed and wiped at his arm. It stung. Poison maybe. He should (should) be alright, but he wasn’t fully Bosmer. If it was potent, this could hurt a lot-

  
An intricately robed Falmer held up a staff and crowed a battle cry. More Falmer poured out from behind doors and thin tunnels in the rocks. Fallon drew and released. He didn’t have time to see if he hit that particular Falmer or one of the dozens behind it.

  
Amuril threw open the nearest door - the only door - that wasn’t flooding the hall with Falmer. He slammed it shut once Fallon was inside. They were in an amphitheater, a third the size of the hall. Amuril grabbed and kicked fallen struts and chunks of metal against the wall, freezing it to the door.

  
“Down the stairs! There should be a side passage to an armory. We’ll have to run but the spheres can deal with the Falmer. Hurry!”

  
Irowe grabbed Gavros’ arm in one hand and Fallon’s in the other, nearly dragging them off their feet as she leapt down the stairs two - three at a time. Amuril frosted the doors, freezing them shut all the way up to the walls, before running after them. Behind the amphitheater’s lectern was a side door through pipe-lined hallways and they hurried down it, Amuril’s boots echoing just behind them. Irowe let Gavros and Fallon go and they stumbled to the floor. She threw open the door-

  
A metal arm the size of a tree trunk slammed down a hair’s breadth to her left.

  
“ _Irowe!_ ” Amuril screamed.

  
The metal arm was connected to a giant metal mer - larger than the armored statues they’d passed on their way into the hall. Large enough it had to bend completely over to fit through the door. It reared up to its full height and jets of searing steam erupted from its arms. Gavros screamed. Fallon cried out and rolled, clawing at his eyes and mouth.

  
“ _Irowe!_ ”

  
“ _Move!_ ”

  
He screamed as a human hand clamped around his collar and belt and suddenly he was airborne, landing just inside the metal mer’s room. Fallon crawled backwards, darting his eyes around to see if there were any more of them. Irowe rolled between the giant’s legs and planted her feet.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The giant slid across the room, crashing into the far side of the corridor to the amphitheater. It stumbled back, dazed, and Irowe shoved and kicked Gavros into the room with Fallon. Amuril - only narrowly moving out of the way before she Shouted at it, stumbled backwards before turning to run to Irowe. Irowe ran forward, darting beneath its legs again.

  
“Come on!”

  
Fallon scrambled to his feet and grabbed Gavros, hurrying after Irowe and Amuril who was losing his mind. The giant machine raised its arm again and lumbered after her-

  
Irowe side stepped it. “ _Fus Ro!_ ”

  
The giant slid, colliding with the far wall of the hallway and breaking pipes open. Fallon realized she was leading it back into the amphitheater - toward the Falmer, a plan that was both genius and suicidal. Which made sense since it _was_ Irowe’s plan. Fallon had to grab Amuril and they rounded the corner just in time to see it charging after Irowe up into the amphitheater. She raced up the steps toward the door, hurling dual fire blasts at the ice. The giant Dwarven machine took the steps five at a time to reach her-

  
The Falmer broke through the door. Irowe Shouted herself into a ghost. The giant paused, staring down at her, then swung eight Falmer into bloody piles of broken bones against the top of the far wall. It blasted hot steam up the corridor, melting whatever ice remained and scalding the closest Falmer to death. It let nothing pass it, stomping and smashing and cleaving everything in its path like a meat grinder.

  
Irowe crept back to them. “I figure... One big construct’s... better than a dozen small ones...”

  
Amuril sobbed and threw his arms around her neck, refusing to let go. Irowe looked shocked, and Fallon was a bit as well. Amuril wasn’t the touchy one of their couple; he really didn’t like being touched at all.

  
The sounds of Falmer being trampled in the great hall brought their attention back to the moment. Gavros stared at them, but mostly Irowe, his mouth hanging open.

  
Oh right. She Shouted. Normal people didn’t do that.

  
Oops.

  
“What was that-”

  
“Gavros. Where is this camp of yours? Would it be safe from that thing?” Irowe cut him off, jerking a thumb toward the hall.

  
“I- it should be. I have a key- follow me.”

  
The construct thundered down a side hall to their right. Gavros pointed at a ceiling length door on the other side of the hall. “The oculory’s in there.”

  
There were still some Falmer about, but they were retreating as fast as they could into fissures and crannies. Fallon paused. His arrow was sticking out of the fancy one with the staff. So he _did_ hit it. He only had five left and it was only a few steps away- Fallon hurried over and wrenched it out. A small rock with gems studded in it rolled out of a satchel. The rock looked expensive, maybe he could sell it in Solitude- he snatched it up and raced after the Malciors.

  
They climbed up the three daises to get to the door, having to drag Gavros up the last flight of steps. He fumbled with the key, wheezing and leaning against the metal. Fallon unslung his bow and looked around. He didn’t hear the metal mer or the Falmer but they could come back any minute-

  
The door clicked and Gavros pushed it open, letting the Malciors and Fallon slip through before shutting it, locking it from the inside. Fallon stopped just shy of kicking a dead Falmer. This one had knife wounds, and what looked like frost magic burns. It did look recent. Maybe there were survivors at the camp after all. Another door lay up ahead past an inclining hallway. Gavros tried his key on this door but the key stuck.

  
“ _Work_ , damn you. Why does it always stick..?” Gavros hissed, shaking the door and making an ungodly amount of noise in the quiet.

  
“Please, don’t do that-”

  
“Shh.” Gavros held up a hand to Amuril. Fallon turned to keep an eye on the hall’s door and anything that might open it. His ears picked up and he turned: there was a human talking on the other side of the door.

  
“Paratus, _open this door!_ There’s a master centurion loose and Falmer everywhere!”

  
“Do you have the crystal?” Came the muffled reply.

  
Gavros’ eye twitched. He slammed his body against the door and wrenched the key. It barely clicked and he shouldered the door open.

  
“ _Oblivion_ with your _stupid **crystal!**_ ” The other Imperial - a dark beardless fellow - leapt back away from Gavros and grabbed him by the wrists. “I nearly died _five times_ because of that stupid crystal!”

  
“ _You lost it?!?_ ”

  
Amuril held a hand out. “Gentlemen-”

  
“ _Enough!_ ”

  
The three men flinched and turned to Irowe, who was shaking. She slammed the door shut and stalked over to Paratus. Fallon swallowed and took a step back, taking a look around him to see if there was anything to hide behind.

  
“I don’t _care_ about your _stupid_ bloody _crystal_. Lock the damn door and let us **sleep**.”

  
“Now see here-”

  
Irowe got right up under his purple cowl. “You can either _shut up_ or go look for it yourself.”

  
The silence dragged on, and faintly Fallon could hear the metal mer stomping back into the great hall, the cries of a few unlucky Falmer slipping under the door’s threshold.

  
Paratus scoffed and stepped back, glaring daggers at Gavros. “I’m reporting this. I’ll take this to the Chancellor and see you never set foot in a Dwemer site _again_.” He shouldered past Irowe - the only reason she didn’t shove him into the door was because Amuril grabbed her - and locked the door. Paratus pocketed the key and scowled at all of them.

  
“You want to sleep? _Fine_. There are bedrolls in the crates.” With that he walked past them, down the long corridor to another tall set of doors. “I’m locking the oculory.”

  
The second set of doors slammed shut, and even by the first door, Fallon heard the thud of a bolt sliding into the walls. Amuril rubbed his face and sighed, glaring over at Irowe. Fallon’s shoulders slumped. At least they were safe from that metal giant, and the Falmer, for the moment.

  
Amuril shook his head. “I’ll apologize in the morning...”

  
“Don’t. He’s not worth apologizing to.” Gavros muttered.

  
The mage hobbled over to the previously mentioned crates and picked through them, reaching for a bundle of furs and crying out. Fallon ran over and dropped his pack, digging into the crates for the bedrolls. He should have remembered Gavros was injured, should have gotten the bedrolls out and ready once Paratus pointed them out. He pulled one out and handed it to Gavros, with a potion.

  
“-I’m sorry, I should get that- You’re injured-”

  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” Gavros said. He wiped his brow and sat down on a crate, holding the bedroll to his chest like his innards would spill out if he didn’t. Gavros shook his head. “Thank you, for everything. And I’m sorry for- for dragging you three into this. Nearly getting you killed.”

  
“Gavros, we are all alive and in one piece.” Amuril said softly. He sighed and took two of the nicer-looking bedrolls Fallon offered. “We can work through this in the morning.”

  
Fallon cleared a sleeping area next to the steam pipes, where it was warm but not too warm, for the Malciors to sleep. He grabbed extra furs and gave the nicer ones to them, then Gavros, and piling whatever they didn’t want in the corner he planned on sleeping in. The Malciors settling in - with potions to ease whatever aches they had from the delve - he started setting out what he needed to make breakfast in the morning. The easier it was to make breakfast, the longer he could sleep-

  
“Fallon. We’re fine. Go to bed.” Amuril said sternly. “And don’t worry about cooking breakfast tomorrow: whatever you have that’s cold will be fine.”

  
Fallon stopped, drummed his fingers against the carafe, and bit his lip. “Yes, Amuril.”

  
If Amuril didn’t get his coffee in the morning, Irowe bumping his leg under the covers would make him snap. No, he _had_ to make them hot drinks at least. As many as they wanted. Fallon exhaled and made sure the spiced tea and coffee bean jar were at the top of his pack, so he didn’t wake anyone up looking for them. He rubbed his eyes and set out the carafe next to a pipe, so it was already warm when morning came.

  
Amuril was still watching him. Fallon packed everything else up as quickly as he could and laid down. Amuril seemed to accept that, nodding and groaning as he lay down next to Irowe. Fallon waited until he couldn’t hear them getting comfortable, and it sounded like their breathing was low and steady. He exhaled and rolled over, pulling the furs over his head. If he was lucky, the incessant hissing of the pipes wouldn’t keep him awake for long.


	23. When All Other Lights Go Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIVVVEEEE
> 
> (see the end for a lil rant on this topic)

 

>   _The Dwemer of early Redguard legend were a mysterious, powerful race, capable of bending the very laws of nature to their will; vanished but perhaps not gone._

* * *

 

CLANGING vibrations on the steam pipes and a dull, distant thud startled Amuril out of a deep sleep. He was in a Dwemer ruin. The thud came again, though it sounded more like a slap which... it didn’t sound like a centurion - or a spider - it sounded like... books falling over.

  
“Will you be quiet, you clumsy oaf?! You’re going to wake them up.”

  
Amuril closed his eyes and kept still. He could hear the two men moving around, crinkling papers, and a fire popping. He thought back to yesterday, and that horrid crawl through the ruins to get to this... this observatory. What were the two researchers’ names again? They were with the Synod, and both Imperials...

  
“Now, you were telling me that elf over there... yelled at the centurion and it flew into a wall?”

  
“That’s _exactly_ what happened.”

  
Amuril didn’t open his eyes, in case either of them were looking. He did start sweating, but in the dark they shouldn’t be able to see it. He hoped. Damn Irowe for Shouting, even if it was what they needed at the time. Damn the centurion for attacking them, and the Falmer. Damn everything.

  
The elder one - Paratus - scoffed. “I think you lost too much blood. Obviously, you’re seeing things.”

  
“I am not! And I can prove it! There’s dents in the walls where the centurion hit it. I can show you.”

  
“ _Oh..._ I see what this is...” Paratus said slowly. He groaned and leaned back against the wall.

  
“You do?” Gavros asked, more than a hint of eagerness in his voice.

  
“Yes...”

  
Amuril held his breath. Had Paratus heard of the Dragonborn? Did he know Irowe was-

  
“You’re trying to lure me out there where there’s- there’s Falmer scurrying about, and that centurion that even your shouting elf didn’t finish off. Awfully convenient, Gavros, that if I died you would be the only one left to report to First Adjunct Orenrel and _take all of the credit!_ ”

  
Gavros gave a short howl and stood up, clawing at his hair and hood. “I’m trying to tell you there’s something going on, you old goat-!”

  
“Old goat? I’ll report you.” Paratus stood and joined Gavros, smacking his shoulder. “And whatever you think is going on can _keep on_ going on. _We_ have work to do. Now where is that damn book?”

  
The two Imperials - none too quietly - shuffled through the crates and equipment for said book. Amuril sighed and curled up closer next to Irowe, thankful she was still asleep. Gavros seemed like a nice person, if a bit nosy, and he’d known men like Paratus before. He’d stick to his own research, unless he found something more profitable, but then all of the Synod was like that.

  
And he didn’t trust the Synod, especially not with proof - whether they realized it or not - that Irowe was Dragonborn. They had to find the Staff of Magnus, take it back to the College, and leave. As soon as possible, without arousing suspicion.

  
Which meant before Irowe woke up.

  
“Damn Ysra, not labeling her notes. She’s the one who should be doing this...” Paratus muttered.

  
Gavros slapped a stack of loose leaf against a barrel lid. “Well she _can’t_. She’s _dead_. Those things _ate_ her.”

  
“Then her troubles are over. _Yours_ are just beginning. We have a long night ahead of us.”

  
Paratus shoveled a desk’s worth of journals and papers into Gavros’ barely open arms, tucked two scrolls under his arm, and headed for the observatory. The door clinked shut again once they passed through, leaving the Malciors and Fallon alone in the antechamber.

  
Irowe yawned and rolled over, laying her arm over Amuril’s face. Amuril frowned and nudged her arm away; she groaned and compromised by laying it over his chest. Irowe stifled another yawn.

  
“Well that was fun... When are we leaving..?”

  
Amuril sat up just enough to make sure that the door to the observatory was well and truly closed, with the two Synod researchers on the other side. Once he was sure they were, he leaned back down and hissed in her ear.

  
“You can’t _Shout_ in front of _other people_. We’ve discussed this-”

  
“You’d rather I was smashed into little gooey pieces like most of the goblins rotting in the hall?” Irowe asked, raising an eyebrow.

  
Amuril fidgeted with her collar. “No, Irowe, of course not. But I’d rather we didn’t do the Shouting bit in front of other people. Especially the Synod.”

  
Irowe scoffed. “What do you have against them? Is this a mage thing? Which one are they again?”

  
“The relic hoarders.” He murmured, looking up again. Neither of the researchers looked like Illusion mages, but sometimes it was hard to tell.

  
“Oh, _them._ ” Irowe rolled her eyes. When she looked at the ceiling she stopped, frowned, and turned back to Amuril. “What do you have against hoarding, anyway? It’s a perfectly natural thing to do-”

  
“They don’t _do_ anything with them, they just- they just sit on the artifacts so no one else can have them, and that’s wrong. They should be used for _study_ at least, to further our understanding of such things... if not educating...”

  
The remainder of his tirade floated out of his head, pushed out by nothing, just the realization that Irowe was smiling up at him. It was that faint upturn of the lips and half-lidded expression when she was enjoying hearing him talk, even if she had no idea what he was talking about. It was one of the first endearing quirks he’d noticed about her, and that he noticed he liked, all those years ago. Even if the face she wore now was mostly Illusion magic, he was still glad to see it. He’d _missed_ seeing it the past few months.

  
The fear from seeing her dwarfed by the centurion and him a room and a half away gripped his heart and he laid back down, pulling her close and nuzzling into her neck. She was alive. They’d survived. They were all fine, and they were going to continue doing just that... but there was no harm in taking a moment and savoring the simple fact they were all still breathing for a quiet morning.

  
Irowe chuckled and wrapped her arms around his head, running her fingers through his hair - which was regrettably tangled and it pinched now and then. He reasoned it was the slight prick of knowing he was alive, and convinced himself it wasn’t too much to bear.

  
He hadn’t hear Fallon approach, but he did hear the skid of his boots as he stopped. “Oh. If you’re- I can go...” They both looked up at him. Fallon shook his head. “I’ll go put these back.”

  
“We’re awake.” Irowe snorted. “He just wants to go back to sleep.”

  
Fallon bit his cheek, his face growing redder, but nodded and set the two mugs down. A rush went through Amuril’s skin as he smelled fresh coffee.

  
Irowe sipped at her drink while Amuril held the brim of his mug up to his nose. Fallon retreated back to a small cooking area (Amuril’s shoulders slumped: he’d told him not to bother with that after the harrowing trip yesterday) and brought out two plates of poached eggs, fruit and toast, replete with small jars of honey, jam and butter. He wasn’t going to complain when the food was already in his hands and warm... Actually, no, he was.

  
“Thank you, Fallon. And now I want you to _rest_.” The young mer shrank noticeably under his gaze. “We have a long ride ahead of us once we find the Staff’s location, and I know _I’m_ still sore from running around yesterday.”

  
Irowe swallowed audibly and flicked her hand. A circle of golden light bloomed around them and whipped their hair up in a light breeze. Once the spell finished and the aches were deadened she harrumphed and treated herself to another egg.

  
Fallon sat down on his sleeping pad and crossed his legs, bouncing his knees a little as he waited for them to finish eating. After a moment he turned his attention to his pack and pulled out a-

  
“What is that?”

  
Fallon’s eyes snapped up and his fingers tightened around it. “Ah- it’s a rock. One of the Falmer had it. I think it’s like a... a geode or something. It’s pretty and I just thought-”

  
“Oh sweet divines is this what I think it is?” Amuril breathed.

  
Fallon stood up and handed it to him. Amuril turned the metal spheroid over in his hand, spinning the dimpled brown-gray ‘geode’ around in the Dwemer metal ring. Inside a slim fissure there were a cluster of soul gems glowing.

  
“This is their focusing crystal.”

  
Fallon’s eyes went wide. “I- I found it when we were running through the hall. It was just on the ground, near the Falmer- I didn’t steal it-”

  
“Fallon, if it were not inappropriate I would kiss you.”

  
“I’m watching.” Irowe growled. Amuril dropped his hands to his lap and looked at her. Did she honestly think he was going to kiss him? She didn’t have to be needlessly jealous.

  
“I’m sorry.” Fallon repeated.

  
“No. This is perfect. Thank you. I’ll give them the crystal and that should be enough to ask about the staff. Then we can leave.”

  
Fallon tucked his hair back over his shoulders. “I’ll pack up then.”

  
Amuril stood up and drained the rest of his coffee, pausing only to grab one of the jellied toasts before hurrying to the observatory door. He cleared his throat and brushed crumbs from his robes. Amuril started to fix his hair and clean his face... then he remembered that the four of them trekked through nearly every room of this ruin and looked like they could use three baths each. Amuril sighed. Maybe they could stop at the hot springs, clean the rest of the muck off before heading up to the College...

  
He shook his head. This damn quest kept getting longer and longer. Amuril rapped on the door. He waited, with no response, then knocked louder, hard enough his knuckles ached.

  
“Gavros? Gavros? Could I speak with you-?”

  
The door pulled open and the bleary-faced Imperial stuck his head out. His curly hair was sticking out from under his hood - he also looked like the very idea of soap was foreign to him - but the dark red circles under his eyes were either from crying or lack of sleep. From what he remembered of Paratus, it might be both.

  
“I apologize for interrupting-” Amuril started.

  
“Don’t.”

  
Amuril licked his lips and held out the geode Fallon found. “I went looking around in the uh, the Falmer outside and I saw this. I’m-”

  
“Aah-ba Par- _Paratus!_ ” Gavros snatched the crystal out of his hands, patting Amuril several times on the shoulder with his other hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much- _Paratus!_ ” Gavros turned and ran up a ramp just inside the door.

  
Amuril stared at the observatory, or more accurately what he couldn’t see. There was a large sphere inside, nearly as large as the room itself. Well... Gavros did leave the door open...

  
Amuril stepped inside. In all his years studying the Dwemer, he’d never seen anything quite like it. He turned around and pushed the door to, then walked up the long ramp to the top where Paratus and Gavros were talking.

  
“He found it. He found it- The Falmer had it-”

  
“He what- what do you think you’re doing?” Paratus bellowed down at him. “This is a Synod only excavation!”

  
Amuril stopped, but didn’t leave. Gavros turned to Paratus and glared at him. “Then as far as I’m concerned, he’s an honorary member. He’s done more in two days than most adepts do in six months.”

  
Gavros walked down and took Amuril’s arm, the look on his face daring Paratus to do something about it. Amuril said nothing but stayed on Gavros’ left, the farthest away from Paratus. It was a wondrous structure.

  
Light shone down from a lens in the dome’s zenith, diffusing on the sphere’s center and some central apparatus - a dozen small malachite panes aligned at differing angles - hanging from a ring at the apex of an arch. The focusing crystal lay nestled at the very top. Light rebounded from the panes in the central apparatus to malachite reflectors in the roof’s rings. On a platform further up the ramp, there looked to be control pillars, no doubt to fine-tune either the reflectors or the central unit on top of the sphere.

  
“This is the Oculory. The Dwemer built it to study the nature of the Divines.”

  
“Oh, just tell him _everything_ , why don’t you?” Paratus sneered.

  
“I thought you loved showing off.” Gavros retorted, before turning to the central apparatus in the sphere’s apex. “This machinery, it collects starlight during the night and... stores it somehow, for what exactly we’re not sure. We’d have to break the mechanisms to see how they split the light-”

  
“Which we _won’t_ be doing without explicit permission of the Synod Grand Council.”

  
Gavros rolled his eyes and leaned in to whisper. “I think it’s soul gem prisms. And our idea-”

  
“ _My_ idea. It was entirely _my_ idea, don’t you dare take credit for it-”

  
“Is to replace one of the key elements with this focusing crystal-”

  
“Reversing the function of the entire machine, to... reflect or refine starlight, instead of just storing it.” Amuril finished.

  
Gavros beamed at him. “Yes. See? I told you he would understand.” He scowled at Paratus.

  
“Yes... Proving he’s smart enough to steal our work and publish it up at that backwater ice den.” Paratus snapped, stalking up to the controls above.

  
Gavros sighed and held his head in his hands. “I apologize.” He muttered. “I told him you were with the College of Winterhold.”

  
Amuril resisted - just barely - the urge to snort as they walked up to the controls. As if being a member of an independent magic institution was ‘worse’ than partaking in Synod shenanigans. Gavros didn’t seem to have been tainted. Yet. Paratus certainly was.

  
“Oh no, I quite understand.” Amuril said, facing Paratus and feeling particularly petty. “I was a member of the Mages Guild until its dissolution. Although I’m sure a scholar of your caliber would have had no trouble receiving recommendations from Bruma.”

  
Paratus blinked. “Well, I...”

  
Amuril wondered if he understood the insult, decided he didn’t care. Then he remembered they still had to find the Staff and, regrettably, Paratus was the only one likely to know its location. Amuril winced.

  
“Thank you. I apologize.”

  
Amuril stopped. Perhaps _he_ should apologize then-

  
“That you ended up in the arse-end of nowhere up at Winterhold.”

  
Amuril rolled his eyes. Gavros shook his head. “That’s as much of an apology as he’s capable of...”

  
“Gavros! It’s your crystal, make the adjustments.”

  
Gavros opened his mouth to rebut but Paratus made a shooing gesture and turned to the controls, ignoring the both of them. Gavros’ shoulders slumped but he trudged down the ramp with the crystal, setting it into the central apparatus and heating it with a low flame spell.

  
Paratus glanced up at the ceiling before pressing the rightmost control switch, watching it carefully and tapping until it was aligned with a faint pinprick of starlight from the crystal.

  
“So tell me, what brings you down here to spy on our research?”

  
Down below Gavros groaned and rested his head on a strut. Amuril’s eye twitched. As if the Synod could have stumbled on something of this significance by themselves. More than likely they _stole_ the idea from someone without the funds to mount a large expedition like this, or paid that mage a pittance to go away.

  
“I’d heard the Staff of Magnus was currently at the College of Winterhold, but they had no records of it when we got there. Master Ervine suggested you knew where it is.”

  
“Said we stole it, did she?” Paratus grunted.

  
“No. She said you inquired after it and left in a hurry.”

  
“Hah. Same thing from a Breton. Why do you want it anyway?”

  
Amuril paused. Why _did_ he want it, what was their cover story for searching for it? Merely stating that they wanted to find it to keep it out of the hands of the Thalmor, Paratus’ first suggestion would be turning it over to the Synod Grand Council where it would be ‘safe’. No... Something else then... Something close enough to the truth.

  
“It passed through my family once before, in Valenwood. My wife doesn’t believe it exists, or that it does the things people claim it can.”

  
Paratus raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Down below Gavros wiped his brow and leaned against the supports, squinting up at them.

  
“I’ll admit: the stories it’s made by Magnus himself are a little hard to believe. Shalidor maybe, or some lost ancient wizard-”

  
“Keep focusing that crystal, young man. We only have so many hours until dawn.”

  
Gavros rolled up his sleeves and huffed but did as he was told, switching to a frost spell. Amuril watched as the pinpricks of light on the walls grew stronger, moving closer to the reflectors in the ceiling. Amuril frowned. Gavros had said that the crystal had been especially enchanted at the Binder’s Conclave to work with the Mzulft observatory. He must be using the flame and frost spells to expand individual crystals, aligning them perfectly (or near perfectly) with the starlight stored in the machine.

  
Amuril blinked. Even if each individual crystal was focused properly, the ambient temperature of the room would change them so they unfocused in a quarter hour. The lengths they were going to - the cost of losing all but two members of the expedition, not to mention the supplies and tools irreparably damaged by the Falmer and Dwemer constructs - was more than he expected of the Synod. They wouldn’t waste coin or resources on something this intricate without a promising payoff at the end. They would waste low-ranking members’ time and effort yes, but not coin or resources.

  
It was something to do with starlight, and reversing it... A passage to Aetherius perhaps? But that was practically useless to people like the Synod, and all too close to a portal to Oblivion for the greater public to allow such a thing. Besides, the Dwemer rarely bothered with Aetherius, keeping instead to their ‘gods’ of Logic and Reason.

  
Amuril shook his head. He couldn’t figure it out. It would have to be something with immediate _lucrative_ applications for the Synod Grand Council to even bother with it.

  
“Keep going, Gavros, you’ve nearly got it.”

  
Gavros scoffed but looked around at the lights. Amuril looked as well. The beams of light were focused on the reflectors and growing stronger. The bronze-toned ribs of the ceiling rings were glowing white from the luminosity below. It must have been an even greater sight in days of the Dwemer, but it was still remarkable now.

  
Slowly, barely noticeable at first, a fourth light began to focus on the wall underneath the central controls. It grew stronger the closer the reflected beams and the reflectors were aligned. Suddenly the light bloomed and a soothing tone echoed from the central apparatus’ ring.

  
“Stop! Stop stop! That’s it! Don’t touch it anymore!” Paratus cried.

  
Amuril leaned over the edge, unable to make out what the light was doing-

  
Paratus pushed past him - nearly knocking him over the ramp’s edge - and rolled up his sleeves. Amuril gave him five seconds before walking after him. Gavros let his arms hang down and shook his hands out, joining Amuril and Paratus at the light on the wall.

  
Amuril’s face fell as he approached it, slowly comprehending what it was the Synod had planned. On the wall, thrice as large as he was tall, was an intricate map of Tamriel. Thousands of tiny dots scattered across the land, a few in the waters of Lake Rumare or the oceans surrounding the continent. The dots did not align with any cities even in history (that he knew of) or most populated areas.

  
He wasn’t an expert on history outside of major wars and Altmeri dealings - and of course anything to do with the Dwemer - but he did recognize Sancre Tor, the mythical tomb-city where Dragonborn Emperors were buried. Imperial City glowed brightly, brighter than most, as did a few cities around Hammerfell’s Sentinel and Alinor.

   
Ruined places. Ancient places. Centers of magic and enchanted relics.

  
Starlight was the purest form of magicka from Aetherius. They reversed - _perverted_ \- a Dwemer device for harnessing starlight - magicka - and corrupted it into seeking out concentrations of magic in the realm of Tamriel. An artifact finder. So they could find every magical artifact of power and hoard it for themselves.

  
The Thalmor wouldn’t stoop so low.

  
Paratus settled his spectacles on his nose and peered up at the map. “All those years of hard work, finally going to pay off...”

  
Amuril covered his mouth. Paratus began writing down the different areas where the points of light were brightest. Sentinel. Imperial City. Markarth. Alinor. An unmarked vale in the fjords between High Rock and Haafingar hold. Winterhold - the Eye of Magnus of course.

  
If he had known this was what they were doing - if he knew he was helping them catalog every magical item in existence - he would have thrown the crystal under the centurion’s foot. Oblivion, he would have given it to Irowe and had her Shout it into dust.

  
“Aah... yes. Good. Very... good...” Paratus chuckled and stroked his beard.

  
Amuril wiped his brow, feeling that now-familiar storm in his stomach rearing up again. Gavros came up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  
“Are you feeling alright?”

  
Amuril shook his head. Paratus turned, face twisting as he saw Amuril and remembered he was there.

  
“Gavros, get him _out_ of here! This is official Synod business and ‘honorary member’ or not he hasn’t been approved by the Grand Council.”

  
Amuril held his hands up. He wanted nothing further to do with this. He did however need one thing from them before he left.

  
“Would you be able to locate the Staff of Magnus?”

  
Paratus scoffed. Gavros sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Well- _eventually_. Once we’ve cataloged all the locations we can cross-reference them with our own lists of artifacts and investigate the ones missing from the lists.”

  
“I need it now.” Amuril said quietly.

  
“Why?” Paratus demanded, turning around.

  
Amuril didn’t feel inclined to answer him. He felt like he’d been lied to. He hadn’t, he’d been purposefully kept in the dark but none of them had lied to him, but the feeling of betrayal remained.

  
Gavros’ face fell and he walked toward the map. “Aah- ah- Paratus-”

  
“Not now. What is so important that you have to have the Staff _now?_ ” Paratus asked, stepping into Amuril’s personal space.

  
“Paratus! The map!” Gavros cried.

  
Paratus and Amuril looked together, the Staff of Magnus forgotten. The fainter lights were dimming, and the brighter ones failing fast. A single light on the northeastern coast of Skyrim grew, absorbing the power from its brethren and even the lights that marked the borders of southern Tamriel.

  
The Eye of Magnus.

  
“No! No no no! No no no no no no!” Paratus wailed, dropping his charcoal pencil and journal. The lights that remained numbered less than a hundred and were fading by the second. “What have you done?! What have you done?!”

  
Amuril was too shocked to speak. Stars, someone was using the Eye. Ancano- it had to be Ancano-

  
Paratus grabbed his master robes with his fists and threw Amuril against the wall. His head hit the stone hard enough his vision went white for a moment and he cried out without thinking. All he could see was Paratus’ enraged face, Gavros behind him trying to pry them apart-

  
“Paratus-!”

  
“ _Tell me what you’ve done!_ ” Paratus shouted, his hands shaking. “Tell me or I’ll-!”

  
“ _Wuld Nah Kest!_ ”

  
The Words thundered in his ears and the sudden wind took the breath from his lungs. Paratus fell to the floor and slid across the glass to the far wall, several furlongs away. Gavros was also on his back but half that distance, staring dazed up at the ceiling and lolling his head over to stare at what hit them. Irowe stood with her feet spread for balance and a palm fully extended in Paratus’ direction.

  
Stars, he prayed she hadn’t killed him. He didn’t wish _that_ on the man.

  
Paratus coughed. A small part of Amuril was disappointed, and he felt terrible for that.

  
“What the-” Paratus wheezed.

  
“I told you! I told you!” Gavros shouted hysterically. “You thought I was crazy but see?! See?!”

  
“ _Fus!_ ” Irowe Shouted at the shrieking Imperial. Gavros slid back up to the central apparatus and spider-webs appeared in the dozen glass panels where he had been laying.

  
Irowe pulled her hand back, ready to cast a spell or summon weapons in an instant. “Now unless you want to go _through_ the floor I suggest you explain yourself.”

  
“What do you have at your College?!” Paratus yelled from the far wall. “You came here to disrupt my work! You came here to make sure your plan worked and now you’ve come to kill us so at least tell me what you have?!”

  
Amuril winced. No, they weren’t- they weren’t trying to murder anyone-

  
“Paratus-”

  
“There’s something at your College creating all this interference! Something immensely powerful that is blocking out all the other magical artifacts so we can’t find them now _what is it?!_ ”

  
Amuril turned back to the map. It was completely white now, and pulsing. There was a slightly dimmer light that remained, in the mountains around Morthal, the Stonehills. Amuril prayed that was where the Staff was.

  
He looked back to Paratus, who seemed resigned to his supposed end, and Gavros, who... shared that same look of betrayal Amuril had worn only a minute before. Amuril’s lips thinned. This encounter was already ruined, but perhaps that was for the best. They’d just have to avoid the Synod when traveling in the coming months, or years. What they were about to do had the tendency to create vendettas.

  
“Irowe, that crystal apparatus. Melt it. We’re leaving.” Amuril said in Altmeris.

  
Irowe nodded and walked over to the apparatus, shock magic crackling in her hands and keeping Gavros on the ground. An idea came to Amuril’s mind and he acted on it: best not to return to the College with the news that the Synod had declared academic war on them.

  
“I regret to inform you gentlemen that we are not in actuality associated with the College of Winterhold.” Amuril said as coolly as he could, emphasizing his inflections of Altmeris. “We answer to a council of our own, you see. The Thalmor Council.”

  
“The Thalmor..?” Gavros whispered. Paratus’ face contorted and only Irowe’s open palm of lightning kept him from firing off a fistful of his own.

  
“It appears our plan at the College of Winterhold is progressing faster than scheduled, so we will take our leave now. However,” Amuril steeled his face. “You cannot be allowed to continue your research here.”

  
Irowe, with dramatic timing, inhaled. “ _Yol Toor-_ ”

  
“ ** _No!_** ”

  
“ _Shul!_ ”

  
Fire brighter than the stream of starlight above poured from Irowe’s mouth up to the central ring bearing the crystal. The panes exploded and the metal oozed down, pooling onto the sphere in a fused mix of malachite and Dwemer metal. Amuril snapped off twin Paralysis spells at the two researchers and grabbed Irowe’s wrist.

  
“Fallon!” Amuril yelled. “Fallon we’re leaving _now!_ ”

  
They raced for the ramp. Irowe stopped to Shout the panes closest to it, blocking the Synod from following for a few minutes at least. Fallon met them at the door, bow already strung and an arrow nocked. Amuril grabbed him with his free hand and shut the door behind them.

  
“We have to leave now. Grab everything, get to the horses and _run_.”

  
Fallon broke free and scooped up the packs, hurling the remains of breakfast onto Paratus’ sleeping roll and throwing their wooden flatware into his bag. Irowe grabbed the few things of hers and Amuril cast a blizzard at the door, freezing it shut. That would only last for a few minutes, less if they conjured and exploded a flame atronach on this side.

  
“There’s a door to a ledge outside. The storehouses are underneath us. Come on.”

  
Irowe led them down the corridor to a small entryway, with a heavy door at the end. It was dark outside, a few hours after sundown, but he could make out the buildings clearly against fresh snow. There was indeed a large snowy ledge outside, with heated pipes acting as railings, and the storehouses down below. Irowe grabbed their wrists and ran toward the edge. Amuril’s heart leapt into his throat.

  
“Irowe-!”

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
They ran through the pipes and plummeted to the rocks below. Fallon screamed, Amuril wouldn’t admit to doing so. They tumbled from one boulder to the other, each one feeling worryingly more solid. When they finally hit the snow it _hurt_ , knocking the wind from even Irowe.

  
Irowe helped them to their feet and stopped, her head whipping around to the mountains. “Do you hear that?” She murmured.

  
“Hear what-?”

  
Fallon froze and started shaking. The hairs on Amuril’s neck stood up. A dragon. More than one.

  
“Get to the horses and _run_.” Amuril hissed.

  
They ran across the snow for the storehouse by the main entrance. Amuril, being older and more of a scholar than a warrior, came up just as Fallon and Irowe were bringing the whinnying horses outside. They mounted and rode through the small canyons to the road beyond, tearing down the road toward Windhelm as fast a pace as the horses could keep.

  
“Dare I ask what we did to piss them off?” Fallon yelled up at them.

  
“Ancano’s using the Eye! We have to get to the College!” Amuril yelled back.

  
It was happening again. This was Rhuusa Gau all over again. But he was older this time, more experienced, and more of a fighter. And he had Irowe, the mythical Dragonborn. He could stop this before people died. It wouldn’t atone for what happened thirty years ago, but it would be one less massacre on his conscience.

  
He didn’t remember much about the ride from Mzulft, other than the wet winds off the sea and the snow that drifted down as they reached Winterhold. The town itself was quiet when they arrived sometime after midnight; only a few guards outside in the winter storm. Amuril dismounted and left the horse with Fallon, running with Irowe to the arch and over the slick bridge to the College’s gates.

  
There was a small crowd gathered outside the Hall of the Elements; mostly students, and there were more on the walls outside the Arcanaeum. Amuril could hear Mirabelle’s voice calling out above the wind and upset students. So there was still time. No one had died yet.

  
“Everyone, please. I understand you’re upset but you have exams in the morning. Take this opportunity to get some rest-”

  
“If I don’t get that spell tome back, Master Ervine, I’ll never pass!” A Redguard Novice cried in dismay.

  
“Return to the Hall of Attainment at once!” The Arch-Mage snapped. “This will be handled by first exams, and...” He shook his head and looked to Mirabelle.

  
“If any of you need assistance during exams tomorrow speak with me and your instructor. We’ll see about rescheduling your exam. Now please, go to bed.”

  
The students murmured amongst themselves but Mirabelle remained firm. Once the students saw there was no swaying either wizards they retreated to their dorms, shooting worried glances back to the hall. Irowe pushed through them, walking against the flow and leaving a wake large enough for Amuril to walk in.

  
“You!” Savos yelled and stormed over to Amuril. Irowe steadied herself between them but Amuril stepped in front of her. He didn’t need her Shouting at the Arch-Mage in front of everybody- “What is the meaning of this?!”

  
“I assure you, I have no idea what’s going on-”

  
“Then congratulations! _Neither do we!_ ” Savos fumed, flapping his arms back to his side and storming off to tug his beard.

  
Amuril looked at both of them. Mirabelle’s cool demeanor was noticeably missing now, and the Arch-Mage’s eyes flashed fire. However, the students didn’t act like something terrible had happened. There should still be time to avert the crisis, or ‘mitigate’ it, as Quaranir spoke of.

  
“Where is Ancano?”

  
“ _Ancano_ has locked himself into the lecture hall with that- that _thing!_ ” Savos fumed, pointing back at the main hall. Amuril swallowed and didn’t dare ask what ‘thing’ he was referring to.

  
“There’s a ward of some sort around the Eye.” Mirabelle explained. “It injured a few students in the Arcanaeum and we had to evacuate them. We think it’s a magicka draining-”

  
“Is everyone alright-”

  
“I don't care what kind of ward it is, I want it down _now!_ ” Savos shouted over Amuril. He ran his fingers through his short black hair. “By the Three, what is he doing in there?”

  
“I don’t know.” Amuril answered. “I swear, by Magnus, I don’t know.”

  
Savos glared at him, then at Mirabelle. “Then we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

  
He turned and stormed toward the hall, throwing the doors open and letting them swing in the wind. Mirabelle followed, and Amuril followed her. He heard the snow crunch under Irowe’s footsteps-

  
“Irowe, stay-”

  
“You’re not going in there alone.” She said, her tone stating there was no room for discussion on this. Irowe stretched her fingers and wrists. “Besides, I’ve been looking for a chance to put him through a wall or two.”

  
Amuril watched her, the pit of nausea growing in his stomach, but didn’t try to stop her from accompanying him inside.

  
Just outside the gate to the lecture hall was a swirling wall of blue-green magicka. Amuril could faintly make out the figure of a mer in Thalmor robes through the ripples, but he looked alone. Amuril glanced around. Where were the two mer with him?

  
“By Vivec, what is that mer doing?” Savos swore.

  
He stepped back and balled a storm of sparks in his palms, unleashing it at the ward. Mirabelle added an ice storm of her own and Irowe joined in with fire. Amuril cast his bound armor spell and eyed Ancano, who didn’t seem to even notice their spells in his inner sanctum.

  
The wall faded and the magic wind dissipated, though the crackle of magicka continued even after they stopped casting.

  
Arch-Mage Aren wheeled on Amuril. “I want him off the grounds _now_!”

  
“Understood, sir-”

  
“Don’t call me ‘sir’!”

  
Savos flicked his Arch-Mage’s mantle and descended the short steps to the lecture hall’s floor. Ancano was on the other side of the Eye. It looked... brighter somehow, and the magicka flowing off it was enough to send the unease in his stomach to a fever pitch. Even Irowe looked a little greener than usual, and she could even stomach her ‘cooking’. Savos powered through it and continued walking toward Ancano.

  
“Ancano! Stop this at once!” Savos bellowed, waving his arms and crackling magicka in his hands.

  
Ancano finally glanced over at them, his brow furrowing when he saw the Malciors. He mouthed something, his reflexes slowed as if he was drugged. Amuril glanced at the Eye, wondering how much control Ancano had over his actions. Ancano’s eyes flickered toward Savos-

  
“-Savos, wait!” Mirabelle cried.

  
A wave of light and a shockwave hurled Amuril back against one of the pillars ringing the lecture hall. He didn’t remember hitting it, only finding himself on the ground, Irowe against the pillar beside him.

  
“Master Malcior?” Ancano called. His voice was hollow, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  
Amuril coughed and climbed shakily to his feet. Mirabelle and Savos were nowhere to be seen, and the worried knot in his stomach pressed into his throat. Ancano walked around the Eye, unaffected by the aura. The two mer faced each other and Ancano stopped, looking Amuril up and down with a hint of concern in his face.

  
“Where are my wizards?”

  
Irowe stirred beside him. Ancano didn’t seem to notice. That gave Amuril the sliver of confidence he needed to speak his mind.

  
“They won’t be coming.” Amuril said, his voice wavering.

  
Ancano frowned and stared off to the left, then back to the Eye. “But I saw...”

  
Amuril glanced over at Irowe, who was climbing to her feet. Amuril stood, holding his arms out to keep Ancano’s wandering attention on him.

  
“Ancano, stop this- before someone gets hurt!”

  
“I see now... I see so clearly...”

  
“Ancano, please-!”

  
“ _Fus-!_ ”

  
“I have to do _everything **myself**!_ ”

  
The Eye glowed brighter than the sun and its panels slid back, revealing its magicka core. Irowe Shouted but Ancano stayed standing. His hair didn’t even flick backwards against the swirling winds. The Shout however, reflected back at Irowe, slamming her into Amuril behind her. Amuril gasped for breath-

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
They passed through the doors and gate - he vaguely mused that they surely would have broken their backs if they’d connected with either of those. When they stopped rolling through the snow Amuril checked Irowe. She was breathing, she was alive. He couldn’t be sure he could say the same for himself though, as he winced and held his ribs. They were underneath the cape of Shalidor’s statute, and he could hear the chiming of the large central magicka pool behind them.

  
Ancano walked out the main door, stopping just inside the courtyard. The wind from inside the Hall of the Elements whipped his shock-white hair around, and his eyes reflected the white-hot magicka pooling in his hands. It was too white to look at, too strong for anyone, even an Altmer, to summon safely on their own.

  
Ancano stiffened his arms toward the ground and opened his palms, unleashing the magic at the skies. Thunder boomed overhead and lightning bolts spawned all over the college grounds. Amuril felt his hair stand on end-

  
The ground in front of them exploded and an ear-splitting peal of thunder rolled over him and Irowe as a lightning bolt struck, barely a yard from where they lay under the statue’s cape. All he could see was white, and then the darkness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being an adult is hard and time-consuming you guys. Have another long chapter to make up for it. And yeah, since I'm officially an 'adult' now my revising time is tanking so I really doubt this will be a weekly/semi-weekly schedule. We shall see once I get back to chapters that DON'T need heavy revisions, but... yeah, the weekly thing probably won't work anymore.
> 
> On the plus side tho, the chapters are getting longer so it's basically the same amount of reading just all at once. :D
> 
> Also I realized that my relationship with my new bosses is eerily similar to Fallon's relationship with the Malciors. (the more you guys learn about Fallon, the more D: and awkward that will be)
> 
> The convo between Amuril/Irowe and Fallon I borrowed from real life which is... not awkward at all, hehehe...


	24. Eye of the Storm

> _As if to compensate for their freezing environment, the Nords are famously hot-blooded and the political climate can be as shifting and dangerous as the winds._

* * *

  
FLASHES of light burst on the edge of his vision, but the sky above was starless. Amuril could hear something like thunder rolling in the distance, but it... almost sounded like he was underwater. It was so faded...

  
There was something pressing against his chest. Amuril coughed and moaned, pushing against whatever it was so he could breathe. It _hurt_ to breathe, a dull stabbing ache like he’d broken and barely healed a rib. Or two. Whatever was kneeling over him patted his arm and held him down. Another flash of lightning illuminated a figure bending over him, with red hair.

  
“Irowe..?”

  
Another hand pressed against his chest. Gold light glowed and while she was blurry he could see Irowe’s face. Amuril groaned and lay back down. She said something, yelled it really, but he couldn’t hear the words, just the tone.

  
Then his ear was on fire.

  
Amuril cried out and slapped Irowe’s hands away, rolling away from her and holding his head in his hands. “What in Oblivion are you doing?! That hurt!”

  
“Your eardrum burst, you _ninny_.” Irowe yelled at him. When she stopped all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. “It hurts because I fixed it.”

  
As much as he wanted to, he wasn’t going to debate her healing abilities. He’d never heard of anything that felt _worse_ after being healed. Though he didn’t plan to question her he _did_ question his life choices, trusting Irowe with their medical needs when she’d never sworn any sort of oath to do no harm...

  
“Where- where’s Fallon?”

  
Irowe tilted her head. “Stables, remember?”

  
Amuril rubbed his neck and groaned, wiping at whatever the liquid was seeping out of his ears. He held his fingers up above his face and a bolt of lightning illuminated his hand. Blood. It looked like blood. Amuril glared up at her. She made his _ears_ bleed-

  
“Amuril, what do you remember?”

  
“Irowe-”

  
“How much you _don’t_ remember is how hard you hit your head. Now what’s the last thing you remember?”

  
He huffed and rolled over, surprisingly, a difficult feat, until he was crouched on his hands and knees. His head was pounding and it was so hard to think...

  
“We... we were coming to Winterhold, and...” He frowned. They were on the College grounds, so they must have gotten to the College at least. He did faintly remember Fallon staying behind at the stables, but the rest he was piecing together.

  
“I don’t honestly recall much after that. What happened?”

  
“Ancano. He’s using the Eye. We tried to make him stop - you, me a Dunmer in funny robes and that Breton woman - and he threw us all out of the room.”

  
Amuril’s face fell as pieces of it came back to him. He remembered the flash of light as Mirabelle and the Arch-Mage disappeared. He remembered the dazed look on Ancano’s face as he stared at the Eye. He remembered the boom of Irowe’s Voice as she Shouted-

  
Stars above, she had Shouted at Ancano.

  
“ _Colette!_ ”

  
The woman’s voice pierced the air, followed by another clap of thunder. The lightning and a clutch of candlelight balls shone over a gathering crowd, all huddled together. There were students and masters of nearly every school, judging from the faint differences of the mantles. Amuril groaned. Irowe was blurry, but the group of mages weren’t: why was that?

  
“What’s going on over there?”

  
Irowe shrugged and bathed his head in a swirl of restoration magic. “I don’t know. There’s been a crowd for a while. It doesn’t sound good.” She sat up straighter, brushing the crown of her head against the stone cape. “You think they can see us?” She murmured.

  
“I don’t know-”

  
Irowe pressed her hands against his ears. “ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ”

  
The Words reverberated against the statue’s cape and cleared a wide swath of snow surrounding the statue, leaving a circle of dried mud and yellow grass all around. On the wind was the scent of Taneth’s wild creosote, that singular scent of the Alik’r desert after the first monsoon storm. Amuril winced and tried not to shake his head. He must have imagined it: Irowe did say he hit his head rather hard.

  
Irowe tucked her arms under his and hauled him out from under Shalidor’s cloak, adjusting her grip so she was carrying him in her arms once she was on her feet. Amuril grimaced and scowled up at her. The sky above was clear, but the dark clouds and lightning still circled around the eye of the storm.

  
“Irowe, I can walk-”

  
“Shut up. No you can’t.”

  
He wanted to argue further but they were under the roof of the wall ringing the College, two pillars away from the cluster of mages. Irowe set him down on his feet and he dusted his robes, desperate to appear composed despite the humiliation of being carried in public. He was entirely capable of walking on his own: it was just that his vision was blurry and his head felt like someone had used it as a drum.

  
Amuril squinted; he could make out the gold embroidered master robes of a Restoration mage in the small crowd as well as the green of a short Alteration master.

  
“Master Ervine?”

  
Her cropped brown hair whipped around, sticking to a tearstained face. She turned back to whatever had drawn the crowd, disappearing behind tan mantles and tinted grey robes. The mages made way for an expert flicking a sheet. He held it aloft and guided it to the ground. Amuril paled.

  
Mirabelle appeared at the edge of the crowd and walked over to them, wiping at her reddened eyes. Amuril swallowed as the crowd dispersed, meandering toward the Halls, some of them stumbling, many of them crying. As they parted the striped brown-green sheet became visible, the shape of a body underneath.

  
“Savos is dead.”

  
He knew it was true - he could see the pale fringe of the Arch-Mage’s mantle lolled out from under the folds of the blanket - but hearing it from Mirabelle left him leaning heavily on Irowe. Mirabelle ran her hands over her face and continued walking, away from the dissipating crowd and toward the Hall of the Elements.

  
“I’m so sorry.” Amuril offered. He looked up at Irowe, prompting her to give her own condolences. She shrugged and looked away. Amuril shook his head. “And I apologize to bring you more ill news, but the Staff was not in Mzulft. However the Synod were attempting to catalogue every magical-”

  
Mirabelle wheeled on him. “I don’t _care_ about the thrice-damned _Synod!_ ” She hissed. It took her a few moments to breathe properly again, her face twisting as she tried to speak. “What else did they tell you? The Psijic, the Augur? What did they say?”

  
He rubbed his forehead, trying to recall the words he’d used to warn them this was coming. Both Quaranir and the Augur were vague, but Quaranir at least was because his vision was clouded. He wasn’t sure if the Augur spoke in riddles because his mind was that far gone or out of choice, but there was no escaping this Event now: that time had passed them by. The only hope was for him and the College mages to ‘mitigate the aftermath’, as Quaranir said.

  
“The longer the Eye remains here, the more danger we’re in. The Augur seems to think this won’t end well for Ancano.”

  
Mirabelle laughed, but there was no joy in her voice. “Small mercies.”

  
Amuril sighed and looked out over the sea. It was starting to broil, and the lightning stretched beyond the ice fields. He pitied any ships caught in this magical storm.

  
“We need the Staff.” Amuril told her. Mirabelle wasn’t listening, staring instead at the Hall of the Elements. “The map the Synod had, of magical artifacts - the only other bright point was in the Stonehills. It’s possible it could be the Staff, or at least something powerful enough to contend with the Eye. At the moment however, I think the first order of business is to evacuate-”

  
“Do _not_ tell me how to do my job.”

  
Irowe shifted her shoulders toward Mirabelle and planted her feet. Amuril gripped her arm tighter but she said nothing, merely growled. The depth of the sound coming from her throat was deep enough to be a Shout. Amuril put his arm in front of her and pressed to push her back. She resisted at first, but when he pressed harder Irowe slid her foot back.

  
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry.” Amuril offered.

  
Mirabelle eyed them warily, and for a moment Amuril thought she was going to say that she’d noticed the rumble in his wife’s throat, but she turned instead to look behind them.

  
“Tolfdir. I need you to oversee the Ceporah Initiative.”

  
Ceporah? Amuril frowned. The Tower in Artaeum? What did the Psijics have to do with this?

  
He turned and saw the greying Nord stop walking toward them. Amuril wondered if he had been close enough to hear the pebbles rumble under the snow, if he understood what they meant.

  
Tolfdir blanched. “I... Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll need- Faralda-”

  
“I need her, and Colette and Sergius.” Mirabelle said as he turned to walk away. “Take Enthir and Nirya. Don’t let Korir give you trouble.”

  
Tolfdir rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he will _try_. Ah: Master Malcior-”

  
“No. I need him to run an errand for me.”

  
Tolfdir shot her an unkind look. Tolfdir looked from Amuril to Mirabelle, then at the ground, trying to piece together how to fulfill his task with the resources allowed him. Amuril remembered this Faralda was the Destruction Master from the gate, but he didn’t know who they others were, or if they were masters at all.

  
“Very well.” Tolfdir said at last. He turned to Amuril. “I hope to see you later then, when this is all over. I’ll tell Faralda and the others to meet you here.”

  
Tolfdir left, jogging under the cover of the walls toward the Hall of Countenance. Masters then, or graduated scholars or experts working on their treatises, people skilled with handling a classful of students. Of course, he doubted many people here had experience with crisis management.

  
“Master Malcior-”

  
“We are _leaving_.” Irowe snapped, taking hold of Amuril’s wrist. “We’re _not_ running more errands-”

  
“Irowe-”

  
“We have to get to Alftand!” Irowe cried in Altmeris. “They’re already going to be furious about this and our involvement- we might as well leave _now_. We can use your teleportation scrolls to grab Melucar and wait it out at the Throat-”

  
“I am not leaving.”

  
She stared at him and everything from his muscles to his blood froze. He’d never seen her look at him like that before; he’d never even seen her look at her _father_ that way before. She stayed perfectly still, tensed, and he had to wonder if it was Irowe that was incensed or her dragons. He dreaded to even think it might be both.

  
He couldn’t leave though, not now, not when it was happening again. The Elder Scroll could wait - the dragons could wait - until _this_ crisis was dealt with. It wouldn’t take more than a day or two, it wouldn’t affect more than the College if they acted quickly. Compared to the dragons this was manageable. And they were so close: all they needed was the Staff of Magnus.

  
And he suspected, from the glances Mirabelle had been giving him since they started talking, that she knew exactly where it was.

  
He wouldn’t go so far as to claim she knew all along where it was, but he wouldn’t put it past her or the others. He couldn’t blame them either, not knowing whether or not they could be trusted, being Thalmor.

  
Irowe hadn’t broken eye contact yet, her only movement the flaring of her nostrils as she breathed. Amuril looked down at the ground, then back up at her. She had relaxed, a little, but her eyes still flashed fire. Amuril cleared his throat and turned toward Mirabelle, keeping his gaze on Irowe until he felt it was rude to not look where he was speaking.

  
“What was it you needed, Master Ervine?”

  
A pause before answering. “Do you have any experience with Nordic ruins? You have some skill with Dwarven ones.”

  
Amuril didn’t correct her, instead focusing on Irowe’s shoulder. “We’ve had the misfortune of exploring a crypt or two.”

  
Mirabelle shifted her feet in the snow as the uneasy silence dragged on. “I believe the Staff of Magnus is in an old Nordic ruin in the Stonehills. We were putting together a team to investigate when this...”

  
The Stonehills?

  
“-Labyrinthian?” Amuril asked, the shock enough to tear his eyes off Irowe. “The Staff is in _Labyrinthian?_ ”

  
Mirabelle’s eyes narrowed, either in disappointment that he figured it out or simple disdain. Really, it didn’t matter which. The glare faded, replaced by a pained unfocused stare toward the blanketed figure lying still behind them.

  
“Savos confided in me the night you left. The Staff was lost in Labyrinthian, he didn’t explain further, only saying we needed as many masters and experts as we could spare and that he would lead the expedition.” She reached into the pack slung around her waist and pulled out a soapstone torc, polished to a deep black and carved with swirling patterns that were darker still. “You’ll need this.”

  
Amuril held his hand out and she placed in in his. It was much heavier than it looked and the edges slipped down toward the ground as he held it from the middle. Amuril pushed his journals and potions around in his pack, squeezing the torc inside, though the flap wouldn’t close completely.

  
Irowe snorted and stomped away, leaving him off balance in her wake. Amuril regained his footing, but not before wavering for several tense moments. Mirabelle held her hands out to catch him if he fell, but did not move to help him. Amuril swallowed, Irowe’s point well made.

  
“Thank you. We’ll go there as soon as possible and find the Staff for you.”

  
He patted the torc inside his pack and carefully turned around to see where Irowe had stormed off to. Tolfdir came out from the Hall of Countenance then, with Faralda, two masters - Enchanting and Restoration - and a small handful of experts. The masters walked toward Mirabelle, and Amuril stopped against a pillar to catch his breath as they passed him.

  
Tolfdir hurried over to his side, sliding Amuril’s arm over his shoulder. “Are you alright, Master Malcior?”

  
“I’m-” Amuril stopped himself from saying ‘fine’. He very obviously was _not_ fine. “I have been and hopefully will be better. But I think that’s something time will have to mend, my wife has- she’s already done what she can.”

  
Tolfdir nodded. “I see. I would offer Colette’s assistance but she is ah, otherwise occupied.” He nodded back toward Mirabelle’s group.

  
Amuril nodded, focusing on each step forward on the snow-covered stones. A master of Destruction, Restoration and Enchanting. Destruction obviously was for taking Ancano down quickly, Restoration for healing the group if needed - and providing wards or knowledge of them to get to him in the first place. The Enchanting master he didn’t quite understand, but he could possibly be needed to help them get inside the Hall of the Elements, if this Colette failed.

  
No matter their role in the group he wished them luck, even if he doubted they would find it.

  
Tolfdir helped him to the bridge’s gate and let him rest against the pillars. Tolfdir tried to smile but there was no joy and very little hope in it. Mostly he looked... lost.

  
He finally said goodbye and hurried with the experts to the Hall of Attainment. Amuril watched them leave, looking around for Irowe. He wasn’t sure where she’d gone off to, or that he could go find her if she wasn’t nearby. It had to have been more than a few minutes now, that he was out here alone. Amuril frowned: one expert had remained outside. An expert with extremely dirty robes and a scowling face.

  
“Irowe-”

  
“She knew where it was all along and she sent us on that wild _goose chase_ just to spite you.” She walked over, her hands were clenched and her arms shaking. “Do you still trust them? You still want to help these ingrates?”

  
The Hall of Attainment’s door opened. Irowe huffed and turned to look, glaring at Tolfdir and the steady stream of young mages behind him. She turned back to Amuril, mouth open to say something but she stopped to look at him and thought better of it.

  
Amuril sighed, nodding to Tolfdir as he passed. She could probably guess there was going to be a crowd, and all of them trying to cross that narrow, harrowing bridge into town and... wherever they were going after that. Trying to squeeze past them could get someone killed, but Amuril didn’t think he could walk fast enough - or steady enough - to make it over ahead of them. They’d have to wait for them to pass, which was only going to rile Irowe up more.

  
She groaned under her breath and crossed her arms, throwing daggers at the young mages who had already been woken the night before exams - probably a half hour after they’d finally passed out - and didn’t need an irritable Altmer making things worse. Amuril held a hand out on the pillar, suddenly wavering on his feet, and decided the ground might be a safer place to pass the time. Irowe dropped down to the ground next to him, still stewing under her cowl.

  
“I don’t understand you sometimes.” She muttered in Altmeris, watching the feet shuffle past them in the snow. “They don’t give a damn about us, they’re just wasting our time, and they don’t even _want_ our help. Leave them to figure out this mess on their own. It’s their fault that stupid ball is here anyway.”

  
Amuril exhaled and leaned to the left, resting his head on her shoulder. He was half-surprised that she let him. How did he explain...

  
He sniffled and looked up into the crowd, picking out a short-haired Nord that couldn’t be more than seventeen, though he looked much younger.

  
“Do you see that boy? The apprentice in Alteration robes.”

  
Irowe scanned the crowd, settling on him in an instant. Her eyes narrowed. “I see a Nord old enough to grow a beard. I don’t know that I’d call him ‘boy’.”

  
Amuril swallowed and closed his eyes, feeling another dizzy spell coming on. He tried to ignore the faces he’d seen in the canyon during the war, tried not to think of the faces he’d seen tonight meeting similar fates. “This morning, all he had to worry about were exams. He could die tonight, if we don’t do something.”

  
He opened his eyes and stared into the sea of legs, and the statue of Shalidor hidden behind them. He’d rather be dizzy then face his memories and imagination. “I can’t let that happen, not when we can help.”

  
Irowe glared over at him, but the look in her eyes was more exasperation than ire. She rolled her eyes and sighed, as much of a resignation as he was likely to receive. Irowe grumbled something into his hair and pulled down his hood, tangling her fingers in his hair.

  
“What’s one more stupid Nordic tomb...”

  
Amuril smiled. He would make it up to her, and soon. She held her hand against his head and a soft light and gentle chimes whispered next to his ear. With his hood down he didn’t feel so hot anymore, and the restoration spell took away the edge of the pain, leaving his skin blissfully cool. Amuril swallowed and tried to focus on that soothing feeling rather than everything else clamoring for his attention.

  
The spell faded and Irowe lightly brushed his hair. “Better?”

  
“Better...” Amuril sighed. He felt like he could walk on his own now. “When this is over, and we’ve slept, I will use the scrolls to get Melucar. We can take him and Fallon to the sanctuary, or High Hrothgar, wherever you prefer, and we will get your Elder Scroll.”

  
Irowe said nothing. Amuril tilted his head back to look at her face: it was worryingly placid.

  
“Is that acceptable?”

  
Irowe cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in the hem of her robes. He didn’t like it when she wouldn’t look at him and fidgeted instead. It usually meant she had another ‘idea’ of the reckless and foolish variety.

  
“Regardless of what happens here, they’re going to investigate because of that stupid ball and that stupid monk.” Her words were spoken softly and in Altmeris. She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded, almost lazily suggesting her next words. “We can’t keep this a secret anymore, we might as well use every weapon in the arsenal.”

  
Amuril’s heart plummeted to his stomach, and the churning in his gut started with earnest. She was right - she had Shouted at Ancano. He doubted the mer would keep silent about it, especially now that they were acting against him, and by extension the Thalmor Council. He couldn’t think of a way to ensure his silence short of killing him, but the thought of murdering someone solely because they knew Irowe was Dragonborn was... unthinkable.

  
Still it was... unavoidable at this point. As much as he hated it, it might be the least repulsive thing they’d have to do in the days to come.

  
“Agreed, but hold off on Shouting unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Irowe turned, trying to keep her shoulder still and not jostle him but her shoulder moved all the same. Amuril sat up and leaned back against the pillar. “If they know you’re...” He swallowed. She understood. “They might come for Melucar before we can get to him.”

  
Irowe nodded. “Fine. No Shouting, unless it’s Shouting Ancano off that rooftop up there.”

  
“Perfectly fine with me.” Amuril muttered, trying to ignore the trouble that dichotomy gave his stomach. It might be easier to swallow if Irowe was the one that dealt with Ancano. She was prone to doing whatever she felt like anyway, he was mostly used to it.

  
Irowe sighed, staring at the Hall of Attainment’s door and the unabated flow. “Where is this Labyrinthian? The Stonehills, but where?”

  
“You remember the large abandoned city south...” He squinted up at the sky as he tried to remember. “East of Morthal? Really, Labyrinthian is the only major ruin in the Stonehills-”

  
“Is this that ruin you always wanted to explore, the one with the frost trolls?”

  
“Yes.” Amuril colored. It had always been a dream of his to properly explore the ruined city, if only to retrace the steps of the Eternal Champion Talin. Or to try his hand and mind at the fabled Shalidor’s Maze, the trial Arch-Mage candidates of old had to survive to prove they were worthy of the mantle. Or to just explore such a historic ancient site, since he doubted they would return to Skyrim ever again once the dragons were dealt with.

  
It was a dream, yes, but... “I would have preferred better circumstances.” Amuril murmured sadly.

  
“Amuril, you _ran_ up to the gates when we first saw it.”

  
He colored and frowned. “Irowe that was years ago-”

  
“It was the frost troll _mating season_ -”

  
“ _Yes_ , Irowe. I remember.”

  
When he looked over at her she was grinning, no doubt enjoying the memory of having to save her usually sensible husband from territorial, amorous trolls. Amuril scowled and crossed his arms. It was... it had not been one of his better moments, no.

  
“I love you.” Irowe beamed. Amuril snorted and got to his hands and knees to stand up.

  
“We need to get moving. We should see if we can exchange the horses for fresh ones for the ride to Stonehills.”

  
“Oh, that will make Herself happy. Leaving ‘her’ horses in Winterhold of all places...” Irowe muttered, climbing to her feet. She stopped. “Oh... We’re not going back, are we?” She grinned.

  
“No. No, I don’t think we are.”

  
Her grin grew even wider. “We should see if someone wants to ride them to Windhelm, donate them to the Stormcloaks.” Irowe said, cackling under her breath and rubbing her gloved palms together. Amuril shook his head. The vindictiveness in her voice was the dragons talking. He hoped.

  
Amuril cleared his throat and stepped in to the crowd with the students, Irowe following a step behind. As they passed under the main gate the wind whipped up and rain pelted them and the stones. Irowe inhaled but held it, looking up at the sky then ahead at Amuril. He shook his head. Irowe groaned, glaring up at the rain until a raindrop fell in her eye.

  
One of the mages ahead threw up a Lesser Ward, shielding those closest to them from the rain but not the wind. Irowe flicked her wrist and put up a ward of her own, and the mages nearest her and Amuril huddled together so they stayed somewhat dry. The bridge narrowed in places, and with the wind Amuril was deathly afraid someone would fall, but everyone was being exceptionally careful.

  
They reached the far side and there was a visible release of tension - everyone’s faces lightened and their shoulders slumped with relief. Amuril reached back for Irowe’s hand, squeezing it when he felt the familiar bumps and ripples of her scars. The storm-besieged College behind them caught his eye and he swallowed. Amuril offered a brief prayer to any Divine listening that Master Ervine and the masters - and anyone else still on the grounds - were kept safe and survived the night.

  
“Fallon!” Irowe yelled suddenly.

  
The lost redhead - the only one in leather armor and a full cloak - climbed onto a toppled chimney and scanned the crowd. Amuril raised his hand and Fallon hopped down, threading his way through the crowd to them as they pushed to the sea-side edge.

  
“What’s going on?”

  
“We’re going to the Stonehills. We need to exchange the horses.”

  
Fallon frowned. “But we- you’ll get in trouble if we don’t bring the horses back.”

  
“We’re not going back.” Amuril said quietly, putting a hand on the young mer’s shoulders and walking to the far side of the chimney. Fallon’s eyebrows were still drawn close together as Amuril sat down. “When Ancano is dealt with, I’m going to take Melucar to the...”

  
Amuril’s words trailed off. It occurred to him that Fallon was unaware of the Blades sanctuary in the Karthspire, or the rough plan he had worked out with Irowe and the Blades. For security reasons, it was best not to discuss that - or the location - now. Perhaps later, when they were on the road there, with no chance of other Thalmor around, it would be safe to speak such things. But not now.

  
“We have friends who will be taking care of Melucar.” Amuril said, in a tone that suggested everything was fine even though Fallon’s face showed no sign he believed it. “I want you to stay with them. It will make Melucar feel better, having you around.”

  
Fallon blinked and looked from Amuril, to Irowe, and back to Amuril. “Okay. But- but where are you going?”

  
“We’re going to finish Irowe’s business. We’ll have to do damage control once we’re done, we may have to lay low for a long time.”

  
Amuril looked out at the ice fields and what remained of the City of Winterhold, then at the gathering crowd filling the city’s empty streets. They might never be able to come out of hiding, after this. Especially considering the Vicarians, and Irowe’s ‘father’. He had to shield Fallon from that as much as possible. Irowe could take care of herself, and the two of them could protect Melucar. They had to get Fallon away from them and back to Valenwood where he would be safe as soon as possible, and it couldn’t wait until Rain’s Hand any longer.

  
They were running out of time.

  
“What is the meaning of this?!” A voice bellowed, the guttural Nordic accent thick and reverberating off the houses still standing.

  
Irowe stiffened and wheeled like a hawk, picking the loud Nord out of the crowd immediately. Amuril followed her gaze, his breath slowing as he saw a fiery-haired Nord on the steps of the longhouse, with a heated face to match. The man was richly dressed - for Winterhold - and surrounded by a sizable squad of armed guards.

  
“What cause have you to invade my city at this hour of night?!”

  
“What ‘city’?” Irowe griped loudly.

  
“Jarl Korir. Hello. -Excuse me...” Amuril’s ear perked up at the sound of Tolfdir’s reedy voice. He stood up on the chimney’s stones and saw the grey-haired wizard weaving his way through the mages to join the Jarl at the steps of the longhouse. “Jarl Korir, Housecarl Thaena. My sincerest apologies. If you will come inside please, I can explain.”

  
“Explain here, wizard. Don’t think we will let you into our home so you can bewitch it.” A greying woman at the Jarl’s elbow said, peering down her nose from the second-highest step.

  
Amuril watched the guards, and the townspeople in their bedclothes peering down from unshuttered windows and doors held ajar. There was only the main road out of Winterhold, hugging the mountains along the coast down to Windhelm, and the guards were in the perfect position to block it. There were several hundred mages in the streets and only a few dozen guards. Amuril doubted they were insane enough to try attacking the mages, as it was obvious they would lose.

  
However, the road _did_ lead to Windhelm. If a messenger made the run to the Stormcloak capital that the least of their holds was under attack by mages, elves, Thalmor, or whatever else the locals cared to claim - half the militia in Windhelm could block the pass to the rest of Skyrim. Amuril’s face fell. Quaranir said ‘aftermath’...

  
“It’s bad enough you people summon demons where we can see them! Now you invade my city in the middle of the night!?” The angry Jarl pointed at the sky and the ominous cloud revolving around the Hall of the Elements. “I wager this storm is your doing too. Well?! What do you have to say for yourself?”

  
“Jarl Korir, there’s been an incident at the College with the Advisor. It is under control for the moment, but we felt it best to move the younger students to a more secure location for the night. This is just a precaution, my Jarl, and your citizens are welcome to join us if they wish.”

  
Jarl Korir scoffed. “I warned you about letting that pointy-eared snake into Winterhold and now you’re paying for it, aren’t you? And where is the Arch-Mage? Doing nothing but making excuses I shouldn’t wonder.”

  
Tolfdir took a moment, no doubt to steady the warble in his throat, before answering. “Arch-Mage Aren is dead.”

  
A ripple went through the crowd. Amuril covered his face.

  
“Well, it looks like Talos _does_ answer prayers.” Jarl Korir said with a scoff.

  
Amuril stared at the man, his mouth hanging open. A wail pierced the night air, and after a clap of thunder there were pockets in the crowd loudly sobbing. Amuril saw Tolfdir square his shoulders before answering the Jarl.

  
“We are leaving, Jarl Korir. The people of Winterhold are welcome to come with us but we will not tolerate any violence against our members. That is all.”

  
He gave the taller Nord the curtest nod he could muster and left the steps. The guards stiffened, a few lowered their spears, settling back into formation around the pass. Tolfdir stood in front of them. That was when Amuril noticed the crowd thinning to the south. The mages hurried down between the buildings, toward the mountains.

  
Amuril frowned. Another pass? He didn’t remember seeing another pass on any map, but perhaps it was small, or Winterhold not important enough, to mark. The Jarl noticed too, and glanced over at his guards then down at Tolfdir. They didn’t have the men, Amuril realized, to block the main road and this smaller pass, not with the crowd already feeding into it.

  
Amuril stood up taller, spying the golden mantles of Restoration mages protecting the flank as the others continued past them. The mages were visibly moving now, helping their crying fellows down the side streets toward the mountain. The Jarl retreated inside his longhouse with the woman, conceding the argument to Tolfdir.

  
“Are we leaving?” Fallon asked quietly.

  
Amuril looked from the flow of mages to the guards barricading the main road. They needed horses, and they needed past the guards. There was no way of knowing if the pass the mages were taking was suitable for horses, and even if it was the pass likely let out into the wastes. They could get lost in there, very easily, and being lost in the glaciers on a stormy winter’s night was asking for a disaster.

  
“We need to get horses, and get down the main road. However...” Amuril watched the guards. “Given that we’re Altmer, and breaking off from the main group, they may assume we’re Thalmor if we’re seen.”

  
“I’ll go get the horses.” Fallon whispered, climbing down from the chimney.

  
He crept off through the rubble of abandoned houses, somehow not drawing attention to himself despite the beige-brown cloak of a summer sabercat trailing in the snow. After the fourth house Amuril lost sight of him, and had to trust that any guards watching had too.

  
“Could you manage an invisibility spell?” Amuril asked.

  
“I can try, but I don’t know how long it will work on you. I’m not good at targeting anything not destruction, you know that.”

  
She tugged on her gloves and helped him down from the tumbled stones, furrowing her brows as she concentrated on the spell. A door slammed open and shut again, breaking her train of thought and the pale white light of the spell flickered out. The Jarl had returned, now clad in embossed iron armor, the woman, now obviously his housecarl, in lighter studded leathers.

  
“I warned them, didn’t I, Thaena? I warned them about trusting the Thalmor. Go on now! Run away!” He yelled, gathering a handful of snow and hurling it at the crowd. A girl shrieked but the others shushed her, mumbling that it was only snow. “ _And don’t come back!_ ”

  
Irowe growled, the rumble in her throat dipping low, and she stalked toward the man and the edge of the crowd. Amuril hurried after her. Stars no, she couldn’t start a fight-

  
The scrape of steel against a scabbard made the hairs on Amuril’s nape stand up. His hands snapped down to summon his armor and a sword but he stilled. They could _not_ afford to make things worse. The students near the longhouse cried out and hurried away, the Restoration mages holding their ground, a few older Adepts coming to their aid.

  
“Men! Never trust a mage to do a warrior’s work.” The Jarl yelled, turning to the guards. “I warned them not to trust that elf bastard, and now they run away like cowards! But we can clean up this mess of theirs and rid ourselves of that College once and for all! Follow me!”

  
He held his sword aloft and marched down the steps, his housecarl and guard following closely. The crowd made way for them, older Adepts and a few Experts hurrying to the front of the break in case it was a feint. Amuril watched them, then looked to the College. If Ancano could send the Dragonborn flying with her own Shout, he’d cut through them like water. One look at the determination and glee in the Nords’ eyes told him not to bother warning them however. They wouldn’t listen, and it might only make things worse.

  
Quiet gasps rippled through those still in the streets as large snowflakes drifted down from the skies. As they got closer Amuril’s nape prickled once again. Magicka. He recognized that crinkling chime, but never from a storm before. Irowe’s throat rumbled as they watched glowing orbs hover and dart just out of reach, wispy tails ringing softly. Their ‘heads’ seemed to flow with liquid adamantium, or perhaps it was mithril, it certainly didn’t look like magicka.

  
The Jarl’s party made it to the northern side of the crowd, near Amuril and Irowe, when he slowed, pointing his sword warily at a particularly curious orb.

  
“What are you doing, mages? Evil spirits?”

  
“Don’t think this will stop us from driving you out!” His housecarl cried, taking her sword and swatting the orb with the flat of her blade.

  
The orb tumbled into the snow with the tiniest of cries. Five more swooped down from the pack and hissed at her, circling her.

  
“Thaena! Leave the damn things alone.” Jarl Korir said, laying a palm on her blade.

  
The five were joined by more, and Amuril saw more descending from the storm and rising from the sea. They massed near the College. Amuril knew it was Ancano’s doing, somehow, but was it in response to the Nords’ advance or simply an escalation? Or had Mirabelle done something?

  
The housecarl scoffed and tossed her blade lightly in her hands, holding her sword’s point in the air once more. They still intended to cross that bridge, and Amuril wasn’t sure whether to be amazed by their bravery or their stupidity. The mages decided they didn’t want to find out and made up for lost time, hurrying down the side streets to the south.

  
“Look at you men. Frightened of a- a ball of light.” Thaena sighed loudly. “What can it possibly do-?”

  
The orb hissed, extending sharp ‘teeth’ from around its front, lunging for her, digging its teeth into her forehead. A cry died in her throat as she started shaking and her eyes rolled back. Everyone started screaming.


	25. Night of Tears

> _"Work was clearly done to remedy the effects of Saarthal being burned after the elves' assault, but I suspect they underestimated the durability of Nordic craftsmanship.”_
> 
> _\-- Heseph Chirirnis_

* * *

  
PANDEMONIUM broke out as the orbs attacked. The crowd of mages and guards collided, tripping over those who weren’t fast enough to get away. The mages farther back only heard screaming; a few hurried back to help their friends and classmates, the rest scrambled for the pass as fast as those ahead of them would let them. The Jarl yelled and whipped his sword around, knocking the orb away from Thaena’s face and shielded her with his own body.

  
Irowe tore across the snow-covered ruins, peeling the woman away from him with a shove and casting an overpowered healing spell in the other. Amuril followed, barely in time to hold the Jarl’s wrists back from beating her about the shoulders.

  
“She’s a healer! She’s a healer! We’re trying to help-!”

  
“ _Damn you mages!_ ”

  
The Jarl threw his arms wide then jerked back in, knocking Amuril on his back. Irowe had just enough time to turn her head before he threw her to the ground. “Get away from her!”

  
Amuril scrambled to his feet and helped Irowe up. The guards had scattered, either fending off the orbs by themselves or seeking sanctuary in the buildings. Amuril’s eyes widened as he saw one- no three and more lights disappear into the thatched roofs.

  
“Thaena, Thaena, love, speak to me.”

  
Amuril turned. The Jarl was kneeling, the woman in his arms convulsing as his shoulders shook. He wasn’t a healer, but he knew there was too much blood in the snow.

  
Irowe tightened her grip on his arm and pulled. Amuril jerked back. They couldn’t just leave-

  
“Amuril. Come on. _Now._ ” And she tugged him nearly off his feet and down around the fallen timbers of a forgotten butcher shop.  “There’s nothing more we can do. She was nearly gone when I reached her. And he’s going to be very, _very_ angry in a minute.”

  
Amuril shook his head. This shouldn’t have happened. Nobody should have... This was all his fault...

  
There was no sense in creeping from rubble to half-standing wall, not with the guards stumbling around, their faces to the skies as more of the orbs descended. So they ran. Irowe raced through the snow, somehow picking her way through debris left from the last crisis, pulling Amuril behind her. Amuril glanced over toward the town’s main streets. He couldn’t see the mages anymore, but here and there terrified townsfolk fled down toward the mountain-

  
Irowe let go of his hand suddenly and glanced around, backing up against a wall facing the sea. Amuril hurried over to her.

  
“What? Is something wron-”

  
She clapped her hands over his ears. “ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ”

  
A warm breeze flew up the cliffside of the sea and washed over their faces, rumpling their robes and hair, blowing snow toward the mountains and Amuril into Irowe. He clenched his eyes shut and buried his face in her robes, praying he didn’t get anything shot into his eyes or mouth from the wind. For a moment though, he felt entirely warm, like they’d spent the last three hours around a firepit instead of out on Skyrim’s coast after midnight.

  
“Irowe-”

  
“Nobody saw us and it might slow those things down. Come on.”

  
He wasn’t given time to reply before she jerked him back down an invisible trail only she could see. Amuril glanced up at the skies as they ran. The storm had retreated to the College and the Winterholds’ furthest peaks, and the stars shone down brightly on them. Lightning cracked, striking two separate parts of the College’s walls, and he heard the stone creak even from here. The College disappeared behind a rotted wall, and he had to pray that the remaining mages at the College were holding their own.

  
They came out between the stables and the inn, and the guards were starting to regroup. He heard the chiming of magic, then a piercing scream from the inn. Then a woman’s scream, and a child’s.

  
“ _Eirid! No!_ ”

  
Amuril turned at the woman’s scream. He wasn’t sure if he twisted his arm free of Irowe’s hand or if she let go, but she didn’t hold him back from running for the door. He slammed it open with his shoulder and looked everywhere for the highest concentration of the orbs.

  
The table. In the corner. A blur of red and blue - and a hand - caught the light of the firepit, and there was an orb under the table with the girl.

  
Amuril crouched in the doorway and stretched his hands out, reaching for her with a spell. He forced her body straight and flat against the floor, then pulled. Hard. The girl screamed as she slid across the floor, covering her face with her arms as the orb followed close behind.

  
Something suspiciously like a hand pressed against his back and nearly knocked him to the ground. Amuril heard the heavy clang of air as something was conjured and pulled harder. The girl slid into his arms and nearly out the door when a daedric axe buried into the stone floor, cleaving the orb in two. Irowe jerked the axe out and conjured another in her left, batting an orb clear across the hall and whipping her right halfway through another.

  
“Eirid!”

  
Amuril glanced down. The girl was terrified but unharmed. He looked back up to her parents taking shelter behind the counter.

  
“Come on! Move! _Now!_ ”

  
The family needed no further goading - the father paused only long enough to grab a sword from beneath the counter and the mother only long enough to scoop up the girl - and rushed out the door.

  
“Wait! Wait for me!”

  
A gangly mer in apprentice robes pried open one of the bedroom doors, his pack and arms barely holding a collection of tomes. Irowe reached the far end of the firepit and held her ground, skipping backwards once the mer sprinted past her. Amuril stepped aside, holding the door open and releasing a half-dozen lightning bolts to keep the orbs off Irowe. Irowe grabbed his robes by the shoulder and pulled him out the door, slamming the door shut behind them, five heavy thunks hitting the oak.

  
“What is going on?” The apprentice gasped, panting for air. He glanced around, mouth open, and shook his head. “Whose idea was this? Was it Phinis? You can rest assured, Master Ervine - no, the _Arch-Mage_ will hear of this-!”

  
“He’s dead. You’re going to join him if you don’t get moving.” Irowe said.

  
“The Arch-Mage is dead?” The innkeeper asked.

  
“I’m afraid so. We do need to get moving.” Amuril watched the skies. Irowe couldn’t Shout again, not with this family and apprentice here.

  
A yell came from the building next to them. A chorus of whinnying followed, and shouts and the clanging of metal. The stables.

  
“Fallon!” Amuril cried.

  
He ran and grabbed the corner post and swung himself around, nearly walking into the breast of Irowe’s horse. Amuril pushed himself away from the horse. Fallon was on the ground, one foot caught in his mare’s stirrup, with the guards and horses pacing not far from his head. Amuril held his hand out and kept his mount clear, then bent down to pick Fallon up so he could untangle his foot.

  
When he went to stand up again, there was a sword pressing on his shoulder.

  
“Hrofnar! Let him go! He’s with us!” The innkeeper shouted, coming around the corner.

  
Amuril tucked his arms under Fallon’s again and hoisted him up, holding still as the young mer kicked his leg free. Now that the sword was back at its wielder’s side, Amuril glanced around at the guards. Only one looked more than twenty-five summers, and only two of them wore the full faced helmet he was so used to seeing in Skyrim. The others looked like they wore whatever helm would fit that was metal. The man - boy really - who had placed the sword on his shoulder had a dented helm that would be put to shame by a leather cap.

  
Hrofnar looked behind them, to the rest of their group, and scowled. “A true Nord never backs down, Dagur-”

  
The innkeeper stepped forward and thwapped Hrofnar on the nose. “A true Nord puts his family before his pride. Get your mother out of here. Get to Windhelm. Things are going to get worse.”

  
The guards hung back. Dagur looked between them then up at the sky. He growled and grabbed Hrofnar’s tabard, pulling him out toward the street.

  
“Move, boy! Take Ysra’s aunt too and- say you’re evacuating. But get the people out.”

  
Amuril was never so thankful to hear the hissing chorus of frost magic. The guards stiffened and looked to the sky as the horses began to panic. Hrofnar sheathed his sword and snapped a quick fist to his chest.

  
“Yes, sir. Come on, men: move!”

  
Hrofnar ran, followed after a moment by the rest, leaving the small inn party behind with the horses. Irowe stepped past the apprentice and mounted her mare, edging her closer to the road. Amuril walked to his horse and put his foot in the stirrup.

  
“Are we taking horses too, Pa?”

  
“I...”

  
Amuril peered over his saddle. There was one horse remaining, but like everything else in Winterhold its better days were behind it. Amuril bit his lip and pushed himself into the saddle. They could possibly double up, but with four elves and two adult Nords, they wouldn’t be able to move quickly.

  
“Fallon, get on.” Irowe said, jerking her head toward her horse before turning to the family. “You can use his horse.”

  
The mother nodded and helped Eirid get into the saddle before climbing up herself. Dagur clapped the apprentice on his shoulder and jogged toward the old mare.

  
“Nelacar, you can ride with me.”

  
“I...” Nelacar’s lips pursed looking at the wrinkled thing, its tail twitching lazily. He looked over at Amuril’s horse.

  
Amuril sighed. “You can ride with me, but the books will have to stay.”

  
Nelacar recoiled as if he’d been slapped. He considered his options again and looked down at the bag of books before squinting up at Amuril.

  
“Can I at least keep-”

  
The mer’s eyes widened at something behind Amuril. Amuril spun in the saddle and flicked his wrist. A bolt of sparks flew to the top of the roof and the two orbs just cresting it. One orb exploded immediately, the other half-melted but only seemed angrier for it.

  
“Go! Go go!” Amuril yelled.

  
Nelacar dropped the books in his hands and tossed his bag into the stable stall’s far corner, before making an undignified scramble into the saddle behind Amuril. Irowe called fire to her hands and sent a fireball hurtling down the street ahead of them. It engulfed a cluster of orbs but dissipated when they collectively exploded. Amuril nudged the horse away from the stable so he could see the roof better, not wanting to leave while Dagur was still fighting to get the saddle on.

  
“Dagur!”

  
“Pa!”

  
Amuril shot another orb and Dagur poked the old mare on her flank before cinching the girth one last time. He leapt into the saddle and the horse needed no further motivation to leave the unprotected stable. Amuril turned to the apprentice.

  
“Nelacar, is it?”

  
“Yes. I’m a former student. Excommunicated as it were-”

  
“The mages are heading for a pass south of here. Do you know where it is?”

  
“Oh, ‘Ceporah’ isn’t it?” He remarked drily. Amuril nodded. Nelacar clucked his tongue. “Saarthal. There’s a break in the mountains back between Birna’s ‘shop’ and the longhouse-”

  
Nelacar yelped and wrapped his arms around Amuril’s middle as Amuril goaded the horse to run faster. “Irowe, take the rear! Dagur, keep your family in the middle! We’ll lead!” Amuril shouted as they passed the others. He heard the disgruntled neighing of Irowe’s horse as she forced it to slow so the Nords were ahead.

  
“Right- turn right- right here!” Nelacar tapped his shoulder and pointed.

  
Amuril put pressure on the reins and the horse barely made the turn, scaring a flock of chickens from their sleep. He saw it - the pass - though it was little bigger than a wagon and if they had the choice he would have had them find a route the horses _could_ take. There was nothing for it however. Amuril grimaced and urged the horse up into the mountains, praying no one or their mounts fell.

  
The storm Irowe had banished came into play again, with fog to hinder their journey and the faint hiss of the orbs somewhere overhead. Where the pass was steep what he could see was already under the horse’s feet by the time he recognized it. He didn’t dare stop, not as long as he could hear the other horses behind him and couldn’t hear the sound of anyone having trouble. Nelacar groaned and tightened his grip as they ascended; at some points Amuril worried they would fall back over the cantle.

  
Somewhere below the Winterholds’ saddle point the fog thinned, showing them a sea of white, only broken by rivers of glacial ice rising over the snow. The ground was white, the trees were white, and the Winterhold Mountains were white. The sky however was an ominous crimson, and he saw no trace of the mages.

  
“Nelacar?”

  
“There’s a trail, we put up markers before Evening Star. Look for the markers.” He leaned half out of the saddle and shot a magelight out into the darkness. Amuril could see a thin patch of frozen dirt worn out of the snow... The ball of light wobbled as it struck something, gravitating toward the top of a pile of stacked stones. Amuril exhaled and urged the horse - carefully - down the dirt path.

  
The two took turns casting magelights, doing their best to leave the lights up as long as possible for the others behind them before calling a new one for the road ahead. Amuril cast one between the horse’s ears as they passed into the grey outside Nelacar’s magelight.

  
“How much farther?”

  
“Not far. It’s about two and a half hours on foot, and the mountain’s the difficult part.”

  
Amuril nodded. He was more worried about crevasses that they couldn’t see until the horse had fallen in one. He shouldn’t be - he knew several outmoded spells to catch them if they did fall, but getting the horse - and Nelacar - to calm down with no ground beneath them could kill one or all of them. And it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Nelacar to lead them to the rest of the College mages, but he could (could) be one of Ancano’s operatives for all he knew. An Altmer student who was conveniently expelled and staying at the inn, when he knew Ancano wanted Quaranir watched? It was suspicious at least.

  
Speaking of Psijics...

  
“If they are going to Saarthal, why would the masters say ‘Ceporah’?”

  
“When there’s too much Change in the air, do as the Psijics do: leave.” Nelacar let out a dry laugh. “Not a particularly dignified response but it is a rather safe option, when implemented correctly.”

  
Amuril waited to speak again until it was his turn for the magelights. “On the subject of Psijics, where is Quaranir? I didn’t see him at the inn.”

  
“Who? The strange mer in yellow robes-? That was a _Psijic?_ ” Nelacar choked. Amuril felt him sit back in the saddle and knew the mer was dazed when he had to elbow him to cast the next magelight. “Well, this is more serious than I thought...”

  
Amuril let him have his moment to think but the mer was still silent when they passed out of Amuril’s magelight. Amuril cleared his throat. “Nelacar?”

  
“I- yes. He left. Just put-” Nelacar paused to cast the next magelight. “coins and a note for Dagur on his endtable. I didn’t even see him leave.”

  
Amuril slowed the horse to a stop in the grey twilight of his magelight. Nelacar’s magelight floated ahead, snow reflecting light blue back at them, and then the reflections stopped. Amuril held his breath and counted the seconds, waiting for the magelight to find snow again, but he had to breathe and it still hovered over the darkness. The crevasse had to be nearly as large as Winterhold itself, and the magelight was a pinprick of light when Nelacar finally dispelled it.

  
“We’re here.” Nelacar said quietly.

  
Amuril felt a chill creep up his back now that they’d stopped. He knew there was a long drop ahead of them, but he couldn’t see it, which made the knot in his stomach that much worse.

  
He wasn’t an expert on Nordic history by any means, but every child blessed enough to spend a few weeks in a House of Julianos knew what Saarthal was. The first City of the Nords, the site of first bloodshed on the Night of Tears, all those ages ago. This forgotten desolate place was where the Eye had been waited through the eras, until the College dug it up. Blood had been spilled finding it and bringing it to the College, and blood had been spilled as they fled the College for the Eye’s once final resting place.

  
He said a quiet prayer to Magnus that there was something in the ancient stones that would shield them from his Eye, and for the flow of blood to stop. He wasn’t sure if the fleeing et’Ada heard him, or if he even cared about the havoc he had caused in the world he left behind.

  
Nelacar twisted in the saddle. “Where’s that ramp?”

  
Amuril looked around the horse: the dirt stopped and all he could see was snow. The trail had ended, and there was no sign of this ramp.

  
Nelacar huffed and cast another magelight to the left this time. “Where is that _ramp_? It should be right around-”

  
A firebolt sizzled past their ears from the crevasse below and Nelacar shrieked. The horse reared and shook its head, kicking at the air while Amuril tried to hold onto the horse and Nelacar did his best to hold onto Amuril. Amuril cast two magelights in the direction of the firebolt, another firebolt streaking out at them as the magelights floated down.

  
“Don’t shoot!” Nelacar shouted. “ _Stop shooting, you idiots! We’re friendly!_ ”

  
Amuril turned the horse away from the crevasse and tried to back her away from the edge, out of range, but she was panicking now. The horse reared again, and Nelacar slipped this time, falling onto the snow. Amuril tried to lead the horse forward so he wouldn’t be trampled but the horse would not be calmed-

  
A warm blue light splashed against the horse’s chest and she dropped down all fours, snorting and nickering quietly. Amuril called a pool of magelight to his palms again - he didn’t want to _hurt_ any of these mages, if these were in fact the College mages - and peered out into the light snow.

  
“Nelacar!” A voice called from behind him. Nelacar sputtered and spat snow out of his mouth. “And here I thought those little Eye balls got you-”

  
Nelacar clambered to his feet and grabbed the approaching grey figure by their mantle. “If I’m _bald_ because of you-”

  
“Nelacar! Just get inside! Hurry! Before those Eye balls come back.”

  
“Yes, please. Everyone inside.” Another, reedier voice said.

  
Amuril dismounted. He wanted to cry with relief when he saw Tolfdir’s now-familiar grey braids and mismatched eyes. Tolfdir looked up and started.

  
“Master Malcior.” The hint of a smile lifted his face. Tolfdir chuckled. “We seem to keep running into each other.”

  
“Yes, we do. The innkeeper’s family is behind us, they insisted on coming.” Amuril glanced over his shoulder. He saw the other horses finally coming and felt a twinge of guilt. They’d dispelled all the previous magelights when they were ‘attacked’ and left the others in the dark. Amuril cast a candlelight that hovered over his head and waved.

  
“Oh. Good. I was worried about Dagur and the little one. But- Mirabelle has you on a task I believe?”

  
Amuril nodded. “She asked us to find the Staff of Magnus. It's in Labyrinthian.”

  
There was no word to describe the look on Tolfdir’s face, but ‘shock’ and ‘disbelief’ came close. The elderly mage tugged at his short beard and looked past Amuril, to the storm thickening over the Winterholds. “Yes, yes, that would be quite useful. I-”

  
The wind picked up as a sudden gust blew through over the crevasse. Tolfdir shook snow from his face.

  
“You can't go further in this. We'll do what we can to assist you until the weather clears.”

  
“Master Tolfdir.” Dagur sighed, relieved after the long ride. He swung out of the saddle and walked over, giving Tolfdir a firm hug and three claps on the back.

  
“Dagur.” Tolfdir smiled, first at the man then his family. “It’s good to see your family’s safe. I’m afraid we don’t have comfortable lodgings here, but it is dry and warmer than out here.”

  
“That would be lovely right now, thank you.” His wife said, slumping forward in the saddle.

  
Dagur helped Eirid down, then his wife; Amuril did the same with Fallon and Irowe. Together they led the horses after Tolfdir, behind an outcropping of rocks to an iced-over wooden ramp hugging the sheer rock walls of the crevasse. Two mages stood vigil on each landing, watching the skies nervously and only giving Tolfdir a nod before looking upwards again.

  
Nestled at the bottom of the ramps was a smooth rock wall, with rows of toppled pillars leading up to it, the animal heads at the top keeping watch on the crevasse and what was once a broad road. As they approached a heavy stone gate - large enough for two mammoths to walk abreast - loomed out of the rock. It was even more ornately carved than the pillars, with an enormous dragon’s head spanning both doors, and small cryptic shapes like ripples covering the black soapstone.

  
Tolfdir walked up and pounded three times on the stone and it swung open, the only sound it made was the creak of hoarfrost breaking. A wide-eyed Breton peered out, then held the door open so they and the horses could enter. The stone gate shut behind them, the reverberation shaking dust loose from the ceiling all down the corridor.

  
The corridor opened onto a wide plaza shielded overhead by a glacier, with rows of buildings lining the avenues and spiraling ramps leading to skywalks and streets above. It reminded him of Windhelm, if Windhelm ever had a congregation of mages filling its streets, or a glacier for a sky. The lit braziers and candlelight spells dotting the crowd made the glacier above glow brighter than Magnus itself, though the faces in the crowd were grim.

  
The mages clustered anywhere more than three could sit - in doorways, on benches, under the ramps or in alcoves. A few were studying tomes, preparing now not for their mid-term exams but for defending their friends. The majority were sleeping, or sniffling quietly in their corners.

  
Tolfdir cleared his throat. “Please, anywhere you can find is open to you. Nelacar, you should speak to-”

  
“Master Tolfdir? Master Tolfdir!” An Imperial apprentice ran down the street, coming to a stop just in front of the elder mage. “Master Turrianus wants to see you.”

  
Amuril frowned. Wasn’t that... That was one of the masters with Mirabelle. But they hadn’t been passed by anyone, at least he didn’t think they had. So how...

  
Tolfdir sighed and turned back to Amuril. “You may as well join us. We could certainly use your help.”

  
Amuril nodded and looked back to Irowe. She was glowering at nothing and everything in particular. Amuril sighed. Tolfdir was right that if they continued trying to traverse the glaciers one or all of them would end up killed. Even if the skies were clear, they could still fall. They had to wait until morning, it was only a few hours.

  
Tolfdir led them to a ramp and up to the third level, where a small but heavily fortified gate lay open. He pushed open the ebony door just inside the gate-

  
Ebony? Amuril stopped and ran his hand over the metal. It was indeed ebony, but- the Nords had neither access nor the understanding of how to work the rare metal, not in the mid-Merethic. Saarthal had been long abandoned by then, so how...

  
He looked up to Tolfdir, who didn’t seem to understand. “This is wrong. It’s ebony, it’s...” Amuril shook his head. “ _Wrong._ ”

  
 “You’ll find there are many things wrong with this place.” Tolfdir muttered.

  
Beyond the ebony door was a winding passage, narrow enough that Tolfdir’s candlelight spell just off his shoulder kept skipping across the walls. It twisted and turned in on itself, always going down. As they descended animal grotesques began to appear, accompanied by intricate murals still fresh with vibrant paint: whales, owls, bears, serpents, and dragons. He began to hear voices echoing up the corridor, so wherever it led, it was coming to an end.

  
The last mural spanned both sides of the walls, and a matching grotesque loomed over another ebony door. The central figure had sun-kissed skin and hair like fresh snow; the eyes had no pupils, almost appearing to glow white. The figures that knelt around his outstretched arms in the left mural were surrounded with flowers, birds and beasts, all connected with faint lines and curves like a starchart that seemed to glow in the candlelight. A few of the men in robes carried scrolls and staves. The figures on the right however were skeletal, with those nearest to him half-disintegrated, and the corners were littered with bones.

  
Over the door was an eye, and the same alien script that wound around the Eye of Magnus rippled through this grotesque, the runes glowing in a forgotten pattern like falling rain.

  
Irowe cleared her throat and pressed past him, and Fallon slipped around as well. Amuril swallowed and looked at the murals again, tracing a hand over the left figure. He doubted the ancient Nords actually revered Magnus - he had always been an elven deity - but this was the first he had seen of him appearing _human_. The figure looked slim enough to be elven, though he stood no taller than the other figures. The model must be a Snow Elf, though Amuril always thought they were greyer, or bluer than this figure.

  
He looked to the right and frowned, studying the Magnus to the right. This one was visibly different, though the hair and complexion were the same. This one bore a beard and long braids tied in the intricate manner of traditional Nords. Amuril’s frown deepened. He was far more muscular than the slim figure on the right, and towered over those kneeling with hands outstretched.

  
Why would they depict Magnus as both an elf and a man when he was neither? The Nords had a deep hatred of magic which... stemmed from Saarthal and the Night of Tears. Amuril blinked and glanced around the murals again. Perhaps the ancient Nords, before the attack, were a more magical society and - perhaps - even worshiped some variety of that sphere’s deities. He looked to the Nordic Magnus again, and wondered if he had always been seen as some sort of destroyer, an un-creator, as Alduin was.

  
“Amuril!”

  
Fallon’s cry from ahead shook him from his musings and he hurried through the door. It opened on a large antechamber, on the far side an enormous plaque covered in runic script. The first line was exactly eye-level, but the rest carried down so far the floor was sunken with a steep staircase to fit it all. Fallon stood at the top of the stairs and glanced anxiously back at him, and Tolfdir stood at another door. Irowe-

  
Four of the runes were glowing. And Irowe was walking towards it.

  
“Irowe! Get away from that!” Amuril shouted, running towards her. The runes bloomed bright white, illuminating the antechamber, and the light flowed from the wall into Irowe, whipping around her body almost like-

  
Amuril stopped. The runes looked like scratch marks one would make if they had claws. Dragon script. It was the Word of a Shout. Amuril’s heart leapt into his throat. Stars no, not with Tolfdir standing _right there_ watching her- She couldn’t.

  
“Irowe!”

  
The light cut off abruptly, throwing them into darkness only held back by the ball of candlelight. Amuril grabbed Irowe’s shoulders and spun her around, holding her close. She blinked, almost surprised to see him. Did she not hear him running towards her? He held her head in his hands and looked her over. Her lips were blue, and they were freezing when he ran his thumbs over her mouth.

  
“Are you alright?”

  
Irowe shrugged. “It didn’t hurt if that’s what you’re asking.”

  
“What was that?”

  
They both froze. Amuril was suddenly aware of Tolfdir on the ledge above hovering over them, his attention divided between the Altmer couple and the wall.

  
“I don’t know.” Irowe said. “I find those things all the time in Skyrim. I think maybe I picked up a ring or- an amulet or something somewhere that sets them off. -Do you know who the Hoar Father is? He keeps giving terrible advice to ‘noble Nords’. Here he’s telling them to take off their armor because flesh is better than steel if they’re ‘true’ enough.”

  
Amuril glanced up at Tolfdir. He did not look convinced, but he appeared more worried about the wall springing to life again than Irowe’s attempt at an ‘explanation’.

  
“Yes, well... We should be more careful in this ruin. An amulet was how we found the section leading to the Eye. There are undoubtedly other sections we haven’t stumbled upon yet, and there may be something worse in them.”

  
Irowe hemmed and walked up the steps. Amuril exhaled and shook his head.

  
“Do you know who he is?”

  
“Shor, or Ysgramor- I don’t know Irowe. It doesn’t really matter right now.” Amuril said.

  
She huffed and walked ahead of him, following Tolfdir into a large hall lined with stone tables. Shouldered by two thick pillars was a dais, made of what looked like malachite and ebony, with the same flowing glowing glyphs as the Eye of Magnus. There was a throne, unoccupied, facing two flights of stairs leading up to a large door and, Amuril guessed, the long way back to the main gates. The few masters and some experts were gathered around the nearest table.

  
“Sergius, how goes the battle?” Tolfdir asked, taking his place at the head of the table. Amuril kept his head down and ushered Irowe and Fallon to sit at the far end, behind everyone else.

  
A grey-bearded Imperial with the purple tinted robes of an Enchanting master barked out a dry laugh. “The more we throw at that damn ward, the more it grows. We can't find a way to starve it or cut through it, but that's why I'm here.” He wagged a finger at one of the experts, a Bosmer. “Enthir, you’re coming back with me. You’ve always got something up your sleeve-”

  
Enthir put his palms flat on the table. “Sergius, I'm flattered - _really_ \- but I'm not a miracle worker or a master wizard. You're better off asking Arniel-”

  
“Don't you even start, you little rat.” Sergius snapped. “The only reason we didn't throw you out is because you report anyone trying to deal black soul gems. It's high time you put your neck on the line like the rest of us.”

  
“What about ‘the rest of us’?” An Altmer expert griped. “We can't stay down here. It's _filthy_. We don't have any food.”

  
“Why not? They seem to have a problem with solid architecture.” The lone Dunmer master of the group said.

  
The Altmer woman glared over at him but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Irowe groaned and slumped forward on the table, staring dully up at the ceiling. Amuril elbowed her but her only response was a low growl.

  
“Well...” Urag rumbled. “The only thing I know that will outlast Nordic masonry is Nordic _stubbornness_. Nirya has a point about the food though. Potions will only go so far, and I don't think we have even have enough to make up for one meal.”

  
“Then make _more_.” Irowe muttered.

  
Everyone else at the table turned their attention to the Malciors. Amuril cleared his throat. Irowe folded her arms under her chin but otherwise ignored them.

  
“This isn't Cyrodiil. We don't have alchemists on staff.”

  
“Savos was the only one who was any good at it.” The Dunmer master said sadly.

  
Amuril stared back at them, mouth almost agape. They didn’t have...? This was a mages college, only two hundred years prior a member of the Mages Guild. They _must_ teach alchemy. Yes, it required no magicka to use - Fallon had no magicka to speak of but he made all their potions - but enchanting these days required far less skill than alchemy and it was obviously part of the College’s curriculum.

  
“I dabbled, years ago,” Tolfdir offered. “But my alembic has been missing for weeks. I...”

  
“You don’t have alchemists.” Amuril repeated, still not believing it. Every mages institution he had ever been to had at least one alchemist on staff, if only to sell potions to the adventurers that wandered in. Every city in Skyrim large enough to attract travelers had an alchemist. And he had seen alchemy tables at the College, with shelves stocked with ingredients, but... they had no alchemists?

  
He looked to Tolfdir, who seemed to understand. If they had alchemists then- yes, the students would complain it wasn’t as filling as the food they were used to, but it would keep them alive and provide more than melted glacier water. It would be _something_. Right now they had...

  
Amuril frowned down at the table. They didn’t have any food. They were lucky enough they could melt snow to water, if they had enough containers to catch it in. They had a dwindling supply of potions, no beds other than tables or benches, and no spare clothes, cloaks or bedding to keep people warm.

  
Really, all they had was each other, and that wasn’t going to be good enough. They might be down here for days.

  
Enthir sighed and shook his head, chewing at his lip. “I _might_ have some staves tucked away in my quarters... We can head out when there’s a break in the storm-”

  
The room shook. Irowe tensed and sat straight as a rod immediately, her gaze fixed on the wall behind her. Some of the mages stood half out of their chairs, the others stayed seated and looked around warily. Irowe’s eyes widened and unfocused, and when Amuril looked close he could see the edges of her concealment spell fading into the pock-marked burns underneath. Amuril stood and reached for her shoulder, calling the beginnings of a lightning bolt to his right palm.

  
“What in Oblivion is _that?_ ”

  
“Molag's balls, what now?”

  
The rumble came again. This time, he heard a low that was faint not from volume but from distance, winnowing its way through the glacier above and cracks large enough to echo to their chamber. It made the hair on his arms and nape stand on end. He had heard that sound before, and as he placed it his heart dropped into his stomach.

  
_Dragon?_ Amuril mouthed to her. Irowe locked eyes with him then tracked something overhead, turning her head and tucking red locks behind her ear so there was nothing between it and the ceiling. Her lips pursed.

  
“Frost one. _Big_.” Irowe muttered.

  
“Drevis, could you please check on the plaza, make sure everyone’s alright? I’m sure it’s just a tremor from the glacier moving, but it may concern the younger students.”

  
“Of course.” The Dunmer master nodded. He stood up and hurried back through the ebony door up the passage.

  
“Are we still holding back? I could handle it.” She whispered.

  
Amuril glanced around. The other masters seemed on edge but they had nothing more than gut feelings that something was wrong. Tolfdir cleared his throat.

  
“Nirya, I want you to lead a group to collect snow outside for water. As much as you can. Arniel, can you see if anyone brought food with them? We will have to ration what we have...”

  
“Is it attacking?” Amuril murmured. Irowe shook her head.

  
He sighed in relief. They had come across dragons before that, as Irowe put it, ‘couldn’t shut up about how great they were before taking a nap’ and had no interest in attacking anything. Irowe never wanted to but they ignored those ones when they could. He hoped they could ignore this one now. They were underground, and there was a storm outside. It shouldn’t even know they were there unless they did something to draw its attention.

  
Irowe cocked her head and frowned.

  
“Dragon! _Dragon!_ ” Drevis yelled from the corridor, screams following at his heels. He shot through the door, nearly tripping on the dais before pointing behind him. “It’s trying to- it’s going to break through the glacier!”

  
“ _What?_ ”

  
Amuril turned to Irowe. “Kill it! _Kill it now!_ ”

  
She shoved him into the table and sprinted past Drevis. Amuril looked over at Fallon but the mer was already halfway to the door. The room devolved into a flurry of panic.

  
“Get- get the students-!” Tolfdir cried.

  
Amuril grabbed Tolfdir’s shoulders, reaching a hand out to Drevis. “Get everyone to a lower level. This level or lower if you can. Dragons _also_ have trouble with Nordic architecture.”

  
He moved to follow Fallon but a hand reached out and clenched around his wrist. Tolfdir.

  
“Master Malci- Amuril. I _cannot_ ask you to-!”

  
Amuril twisted out of his grip and ran for the door. “We know what we're doing!” He shouted back.

  
He raced up the corridor, but despite having to keep up with Irowe and Fallon all the time, he was still an older mer and winded easily, especially running uphill. The only thing that kept him going was the clamor of footsteps behind him and the threat of having to explain exactly _how_ they knew how to kill dragons.


	26. Red Sky Dawning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's really hard for me to believe Portents is coming up on its first anniversary D:
> 
> Shoutout to all my regulars. You guys don't talk much but I see you. You're awesome :D

> _"The worst action executed with vigor is superior to the best action executed timidly."_
> 
> _\-- Frandar Hunding_

* * *

 

PATIENCE was a virtue, but not one Irowe or her dragons practiced often. She raced up the steps back to Saarthal’s main plaza, the dragon’s echoes thrumming in her blood. Amuril kept telling her to hold back, to keep her power secret, insisting it was _safe_. As if running away from some power-crazed maniac with ice-magic orbs was going to solve everything.

  
Irowe stopped at the upper gate and snorted. Running away made more of a mess and got people killed. That was a lesson she wished it hadn’t taken sixty years and dragon souls to learn, but she couldn’t for the life of her understand how Amuril was thrice her age and didn’t know that. Granted, there were many subjects Amuril was a novice on, but _still_.

  
The dragon Shouted itself Ethereal and began to sink through the ice, a vague purple and bone-white shadow that became less foggy and more terrifying as it descended. Irowe cocked her head and stared at it. It almost looked like it was trying to swim for the large open pocket of the plaza, but it was definitely struggling, and certainly not a very dignified descent. Maybe there was some truth to Qonahmir’s insistence that while dragons had created that Shout, they weren’t particularly _good_ at it. She never had much trouble with it.

  
Irowe cast a bound armor spell and dropped down over the ramp’s side, one turn at a time until she reached the one above the floor. The mages were screaming and running for any building with an opening they could fit through. Obviously, none of them had heard what happened at Helgen. The dragon finally descended to the ground, holding its wings open to slow its fall, and roared.

  
It turned to study the people fleeing, trying to see which group was most worth chasing after first. Irowe cast Muffle and Invisibility, then dropped down again, running toward the dragon and trying to avoid anything that would give her away. She glanced over her shoulder; the plaza was big but it would get cramped very quickly with the dragon, there wasn’t much room to dodge. She had to get it outside-

  
The dragon craned its neck around and looked her straight in the eye. Irowe froze.

  
Illusion worked mainly on sight and sound - very few masters of the school were skilled enough to fool noses or skin, and she’d never heard of anyone using Illusion spells for _taste_. Dragons, Qonahmir and the others explained, hunted with every sense. They had a perfect sense of smell and excellent vision, but poor hearing, ‘hearing’ instead with the vibrations in the wind and ground on their scales. Their ‘hearing’ was sensitive enough to even pick up the soft padding of an Altmer Illusion expert in robes.

  
Irowe’s face twisted. She wanted to kill something.

  
“ Boziik ahkrin!” The dragon crowed, the deep rumble of laughter shaking the pebbles under its feet.

  
The dragon waited, curving its head nearly upside down as she stomped over to it. So it could hear her walking. What exactly did that change? She still had a hint of the element of surprise: it didn’t know who she was, or what she was. Let it preen over ‘catching’ her. She was going to enjoy beating the living daylights out of it, and then _eating_ it.

  
Irowe kept out of biting range and circled back around so she was between the dragon and the deeper part of the ruin, the first step of some sort of plan forming. That new Word would be very useful...

  
The dragon rumbled again and shook its head, teeth glistening as its lips curled back. “ Hi yah dinokiil daar sul, joor?"

  
“One of us is dying today, zeymah, and it _isn’t_ me.” Irowe muttered.

  
She felt the puff of air as the dragon exhaled sharply, its eyes narrowing. Irowe only gave it the time it took to inhale to think over what she’d just said.

  
“ _Iiz!_ ”

  
Ice leapt from her mouth and embedded itself on the ground, the dragon’s wings, and the spikes of its beard. The ice crept along, starting chain reactions all the way back to the door as the snow and meltwater on the ground turned to ice. The dragon growled, exhaling, and shook its head. The breath was cold, because of course it was. It was rare for fire-breathers to venture where the snow rarely melted, Volshulviing’s ill-fated trek to Septimus’ outpost excluded.

  
The dragon began to inhale-

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The dragon’s eyes widened and it roared more out of shock than rage, sliding backwards over the thick film of ice from Irowe’s Shout. Irowe sprinted after it. The dragon tried raising its wings to slow itself but the ice was too encrusted for them to open without throwing the dragon on its back. It slammed into the gate, lodged there by the awkward position of its wings and legs, tail flailing just outside the entrance.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
Irowe closed the remaining distance and leapt in the air, bringing a newly conjured warhammer down between the dragon’s curving crest horns. Its head made a _very_ satisfying ‘thud’ as it slammed chin-first into the ground. The momentum carried her up and over its back, nearly hitting her head on the roof, and she slid half off its tail and legs into the snow of the courtyard.

  
The dragon howled in pain and rage, struggling to free itself. Irowe dusted the snow off her robes and bound armor, refreshing herself with a potion of magicka before she really got going. She capped the phial and returned it to her satchel, walking carefully between the stone pillars toward the enraged dragon.

  
“ Dreh hi bo, _mal lir?_ ”

  
The dragon bellowed into Saarthal and slammed the right door open, sending two stone pillars to the ground. Irowe heard yells behind and above her. Shit, there were still mages out here? She turned her attention back to the dragon, which had freed itself from the door and was now charging her. Irowe dove behind a pillar and rolled, letting off a lightning bolt in her offhand.

  
The dragon roared and slammed its shoulder against a pillar, sending it and another slowly, heavily to the snow beside Irowe. Irowe jumped up on the nearest pillar and swung, smacking the dragon in the jaw. It curved, swiping its tail along the pillar. She had enough time to jump, but not to clear it. Irowe clung to a thick spinal spike in the tail and let it pull her, trying to wrap her legs around it so she could somewhat stand up-

  
The wind shot out of her lungs as the dragon launched itself into the air, taking her with it and leaving the warhammer behind. Irowe locked her knees around the tail, shutting her eyes as the glacier valley and the horizon itself tumbled around like she was stuck in a barrel. She knew the best course of action was to let go and use a Shout to land safely - Ethereal was her best bet - but it was all she could do to just hold on and not go flying off toward the mountains with each flick.

  
_Let go._ Qonahmir hissed. Irowe made the mistake of opening her eyes to try and see where she would land. All she could see was white and a darker white, and everything was spinning-

  
Her breath left her and her chest tightened as the world lost all color. _We’re in the clouds now._ Qonahmir rumbled. _Let go._

  
Irowe couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move her fingers or her legs, she couldn’t breathe-

  
“ _Strun Bah Fo!_ ”

  
Thunder rolled and rushed around them, and the wind turned bitter cold, biting at her exposed skin. She lost control of her body as Qonahmir usurped her baser movements. Her arms threw themselves wide and her legs uncrossed. She screamed, but that part was her. The dragon disappeared into the white-grey and she plummeted, the air whipping past her face.

  
The clouds shot away and the snowy mass of the glaciers lay beneath her, the tips turning rosy as Magnus peered over the Druadachs and Winterholds’ peaks. She couldn’t see the valley where Saarthal was. She had no idea where she was, just that there was a dragon somewhere above her in a growing snowstorm and the ground was coming at her very, very fast.

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
Ethereal or no, she still landed chest-down in the snow - somewhere - and rolled for a few good furlongs before the ground leveled out. Irowe sat up on her elbows and spat snow out of her mouth, wincing. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea...

  
She pulled off her glove on a hunch, keeping the finger between her teeth as the cold bit into her hand. She rubbed the ring and breathed on it until the gem showed. A faint red with a steady glow, but it was brighter to her left. Irowe clambered to her feet and tugged the glove back on. Amuril and Saarthal were that way-

  
The dragon roared in the snowstorm. Irowe growled and began conjuring another warhammer - a _big_ one. Every bone in its body was going to be broken into pocket-sized _pieces_ by the time she was through with it-

  
A crack rippled through the sky. A thousand echoes shook stones from the mountains above and the ground underneath her, knocking Irowe back to her knees. The real words hit her, impossibly loud and thrumming in her blood.

  
“ _MID AAR BO!_ ”

  
The ground continued rumbling. She could hear the crack of landslides and avalanches sliding down the mountains all around, but Irowe remained on her knees. She was too stunned to breathe.

  
Alduin was ready. Alduin was gathering all its servants and preparing for war. There had been no sign- she thought she had more time-

  
“ _Iiz Slen Uz!_ ”

  
The much closer Shout snapped her back to the moment and she rolled, tumbling blindly down a slope as the snow behind her exploded with ice. The dragon roared and dove past her, so low she could have reached out and touched scales. Irowe planted her feet and turned the roll into a run.

  
“ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ”

  
The blizzard whipped away as suddenly as it had blown in and the sun shone, blood red and rising. The dragon roared overhead and wheeled, racing back down the Winterholds toward her now that its cover was blown. Irowe downed the last of her potion and held her ground as it approached.

  
The great dragon flew up on her and threw its wings wide, buffeting her as it glared down. “Thuri fen zin lot fah dinokiil!”

  
Irowe shifted her stance and arched her wrists, responding with lightning. The dragon howled and folded in its wings, dropping to the snow and knocking Irowe off her feet. Her shock spells shot up in the air briefly before she threw her arms out and rolled.

  
The dragon lumbered over and snapped at her, scraping her armor with the tusks on its chin. Irowe scrambled to her feet and conjured axes, hacking at its right wing until it roared and turned, then she ducked under its chest again. She ran for the other wing and clove through the bone with one strike. The dragon cried out and collapsed, struggling to stand on its crippled right wing as its left bled black against the snow.

  
Irowe climbed its back, digging the axe heads in between scales as it howled and tried shaking her off. It rolled to the right, onto its back, but Irowe let go of the axes and jogged left as soon as she was upright. It attempted to roll again-

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The bones in its right wing shattered, imprinting deep into the snow as the dragon roared.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
Its jaw visibly broke, hanging slack against the roof of its mouth as blood spurted out. Its eyes glazed over as the pain took over every sense. Irowe steadied herself on its chest and gathered her breath.

  
“ _Fus Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The dragon’s head snapped back and cracked, half-crumpling into itself from the Shout. Its body stilled, then began to glow. Irowe crouched down and slid halfway off before she fell through its dissolving chest into the blackened snow. She slumped to the ground as the soul finished draining into her, just sitting in the bloodied snow as the sun peered out from behind bleaching bones.

  
Inside her head the dragon - Venlonir - was screaming, denying the truth of what had happened. Qonahmir and the others pounced on it in its weakened state, forcing it just below Mirgrahviing while it was still reeling. Irowe waited for them to settle before standing up, steadying herself on a rib.

  
Alduin was moving. There was no more time.

  
Irowe pulled her glove off and held it around, honing in on where it was brightest. She stepped through the bones and peered out over the snow.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
The glaciers flew past under her feet. Irowe tried her best to keep a straight path, despite the crevasses and wide gaps in the ice between her and Saarthal. Now that she had started running and felt how slippery the ice could be under her feet though, she began to worry about how she was going to stop.

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
Irowe grit her teeth and kept running. She could worry about that later, the same way she would worry about Alduin’s gathering forces later-

  
The only warning she had, with her glove over her ring, was the half-second of spying grey pillars rising from a lower part of the ground. Then the ground was simply not beneath her feet anymore, and she was falling.

  
“ _Feim!_ ”

  
The ground rose up at her and she passed through a railing before tumbling into a snowbank. Irowe lay still, just catching her breath and running a mental check that nothing felt broken. She cast a shaky restoration spell to be sure.

  
“Irowe!”

  
She held her casting arm up in the air and waved it around weakly. The slats of the ramps rattled as Amuril raced down them and dropped into the snowbank beside her.

  
“Irowe, are you alright? Where is it? Is the dragon behind you?” Amuril asked, laying a hand on her shoulder and leaning over her.

  
“I ate it.” Irowe muttered. She rolled onto her back and ran her hands over her face. “We have to go. _Now._ ”

  
Amuril bit his lip and nodded. He looked over his shoulder and nodded again.

  
“Fallon’s getting the horses. We can meet him at the trailhead. Can you walk?”

  
“I’m fine, I just...” Irowe shook her head and got to her knees, staring up at the sky. “I thought we had more time.”

  
She stood and took Amuril’s hand, pulling him up the steps of the ramps. Amuril kept making noises like he wanted to complain at the pace, but she would tug a little harder and the noises stayed in his throat. He could rest on the horse, and it wasn’t like he’d actually done any of the fighting.

  
“Alduin is moving. It’s finished raising all the dragons loyal to it and it’s going to start attacking. We have to get the Scroll _now_. The stupid staff has to wait.”

  
Amuril skipped ahead of her and held his hand out. “Irowe, I can place a mark at Alftand - we’ll have to travel past it to reach Labyrinthian. We can get the staff and have someone meet us at Alftand-”

  
Irowe put her foot down. Hard. “No, Amuril it will be safer to get the Scroll first, the draugr- We don’t have _time!_ We have to go to Alftand _now!_ ”

  
Her voice echoed across the glacial valley. Amuril blinked rapidly, thinking about it, no doubt looking for some excuse but there _were_ no good excuses. This was _his_ fault that it had taken them this long and now they were out of time. Because he had to stick around at that stupid college for gods only knew why.

  
“Irowe, it will be _safer_ to get the Staff _first_. Especially if there are dragons flying around attacking things and- and how would we even get to the Throat?”

  
“Will you just listen to me?!” Irowe cried in exasperation.

  
“I _am_ listening!” Amuril snapped. He put his hands on her shoulders and held them there, despite her attempts to shrug him off. “Irowe, the only way we can stop this crisis is if you have the best possible chance to fight Alduin and survive. How are you supposed to do that if- if three dragons attack us on the way to the Throat and one of them kills you?” His eyes softened as he shook his head and glanced at the ramp’s boards. “Our only choice is to wait out the attacks and move when there’s a lull-”

  
Irowe slapped his hands down and stepped into his face, her nose just a hair above his. “I would _have_ the Shout by now if you had listened to me earlier! _I told you_ we had to leave and now we have no choice!”

  
“We always have a choice!” Amuril shouted, taking a step back.

  
Irowe stepped forward. “Running away is not an option!”

  
“We are not-!”

  
Amuril waved his arms. He stopped himself and put his hands on his hips, then crossed his arms over his chest and held his head. Irowe snorted. Of course they were running away. That was all he was good at, really, was running from problems. He excelled at it.

  
“We are not ‘running away’.” Irowe rolled her eyes so hard her shoulders rolled with them. Amuril either didn’t see or pretended he couldn’t. “The safest option - the best chance you have to fight Alduin and _win_ , is with the Shout from the Elder Scroll. You have to be alive to learn it, and none of us would survive a trip to the Throat if this is as bad as you’re implying.”

  
Irowe let her grinding teeth speak for her; if she said a word, it was going to be a Word. She needed Amuril alive to help her get through Alftand, quickly and in one piece. He knew the Dwarven sentry machines far better than she did; he and Gavros were the ones who found all the traps in Mzulft. She _needed_ him...

  
“... and we’ll weather the front of this attack, and go up the Throat when they’re distracted. That’s our best hope. Now come on.” Amuril said. As if the discussion was over that simply.

  
Irowe followed sullenly, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. She had to focus on it and not the dragons’ whispering. How dare he disrespect her. How dare he suggest his personal vendetta with the College was more important that stopping Alduin. How dare he.

  
Amuril stopped at the top of a ramp and spoke to one of the mages. “Excuse me. Can you give Tolfdir a message for me? We have to leave, immediately...”

  
She didn’t hear the rest of the conversation; the blood was pounding in her ears so loudly. Even after that fight with Venlonir she still wanted to murder something, and if she didn’t walk away it was going to be Amuril. How could he-? She growled and slammed the side of her fist against the rock wall. He didn’t see it. He _refused_ to see it.

  
He was going to get hundreds - if not thousands - of people killed. For a bunch of mages that didn’t even give a damn about him.

  
Irowe stomped up the last of the ramps and onto the snowy trail atop the glaciers. Fallon was there with the horses, unstringing his bow. She said nothing to him, just walked over to her horse. For everyone’s sake, the ride had better be short because she needed to murder something again-

  
“So we’re going to Labyrinthian?” Fallon asked.

  
Something inside her snapped.

  
Irowe dropped her hands to her side and held her breath. Was she really considering this? Was she _really_ considering this?

  
“Irowe?”

  
_Yes._

  
Irowe ripped open the saddlebag and threw her own pack on the ground, kicking it open. She dropped an armful of potions in there - all magicka - and jerked on the bag until she could pull out the Dwarven cube Septimus gave her. That was dropped into her pack.

  
“Irowe?”

  
“I have to do-” Irowe tugged the sphere out and grit her teeth. “ _Everything **myself.**_ ” She crammed it into the bottom of her pack with the cube, so the potions were on top. She tied the flap back down and threw it onto her back.

  
“If he wants to stay here and play hero, then _fine_. But I’m _done_ waiting for him.”

  
“Irowe-”

  
“ _Wuld!_ ”

  
If Fallon said anything further - if Amuril said anything or even saw her leave - she didn’t notice. She didn’t need the horse, it would just slow her down. She didn’t need them either - the boys would just slow her down too. Irowe adjusted her course so she was running north now, along the edges of the long crevasses.

  
She could make it through the Dwarven ruin all the way to Blackreach if she used the Ethereal Shout. That centurion hadn’t been able to touch her, so the others wouldn’t either. And there was nothing in the prophecy that said the Last Dragonborn faced Alduin with her husband at her side. To be honest, there was nothing in the prophecy that said the Last Dragonborn would _survive_ facing Alduin but at the moment, she felt if she died it would be entirely Amuril’s fault and she hoped he regretted it for the rest of his life.

  
There was a more rational part of her head that reminded her quietly that she didn’t want that. It was several minutes of coercion before the rest of her eventually agreed. It was just better this way. Amuril could handle his stupid College business with that stupid Staff and the stupid orb, and she could handle the real threat of Alduin.

  
And when this was all over she would find Amuril and _sit on him_ until he gave her a real apology. For everything. And then they would worry about getting Melucar from the Isles and making their own life somewhere away from the Thalmor. It was a goal anyway, something dwell on besides the pitiful chances of her living to see the next sunrise.

  
There was no path leading to Alftand, but the rising rays of Magnus made a part of the mountains ahead shine bronze, so that was where she headed. It made sense to her at least, for the Dwarves to put a stronghold just north of the only pass through the Winterholds.

  
The glacier sloped up into the mountains, dropping away suddenly into cliffs but this time - thankfully - the Shout wore off before she ran over them. Irowe spotted a sleet-covered bridge leading toward but not to the tower, and what looked like tents and a camp of some kind. Irowe conjured an axe and tread carefully. The last thing she wanted to deal with were bandits. Or those Synod hoarder people.

  
Her skin prickled as she entered the edge of the camp. She went unnoticed not because of her stealthy skill or expertise in Illusion, but because the camp was abandoned. It looked like weeks ago, but she couldn’t be sure. The camp could be years old and merely frozen to look like it was last visited yesterday, she’d seen that before in Skyrim’s mountains.

  
There was another walkway wrapping around the cliffs and she picked her way over it. It stretched under the shadow of two smaller towers in the ice to a fissure. Irowe paused at the entrance and pulled her facemask down. The air was warm but damp, and it reeked of metal and oil... and something else.

  
Irowe checked her gear and the sun before turning back to the fissure. She could make it if she ran. She threw one last glance to the world outside before casting Ironflesh and jogging into the steaming crevasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Boziik ahkrin!: Bold courage!
>   * Hi yah dinokiil daar sul, joor?: You seek your death this day, mortal?
>   * Dreh hi bo, mal lir?: Do you fly, little worm?
>   * Mid Aar Bo: Loyal Servant[s] Come
>   * Thuri fen zin lot fah dinokiil!: [My] Lord will honor [me] greatly for [your] death!
> 



	27. City of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portents is a year old today!
> 
> ...
> 
> PORTENTS IS A YEAR OLD TODAY :DDD
> 
>  
> 
> _(I mean I started writing it 2 1/2 years ago, but... first chapter was posted a year ago. :DDDDD )_

> _... We would be fools to refuse the Aren family's gift of the Staff of Magnus in return for Savos’ acceptance. The stipulation that it be returned if the Guild Hall in Mournhold ever reopens is an easy promise to make. This ‘New Temple’ isn’t fond of the Empire, and the Guild won’t be expanding there any time soon..._
> 
> _\-- Arch-Mage Uriel Antien’s private journal_

* * *

 

FLURRIES swirled around the horses’ legs as Amuril crested the top of the ramp, his heart in his throat. Fallon was struggling to get the horses under control, shouting at them in Bosmeris and half dragged out of his saddle by Amuril’s horse. Amuril’s mouth went dry, and he felt his knees shaking.

  
Irowe was gone.

  
“ _Irowe!_ ” He cried out, running past Fallon after her.

  
Stars, she couldn’t- she wouldn’t survive going into a Dwemer ruin by _herself_ , let alone looking for this Blackreach- Let alone fighting the World-Eater all alone.

  
What was she _thinking_?

  
“Amuril!”

  
Fallon’s call behind him made him slow. There was no chance he could catch her now, not even with the horses. She was going too fast.

  
Stars, what was she doing? She was going to get herself killed.

  
Amuril pulled his hood down and knotted his fingers in his hair. They would meet her at the 7000 Steps, if his ring showed she was anywhere but Alftand. He ran his palms over his eyes and thanked Julianos he’d had the foresight years ago to have those rings made. If she was still in Alftand, they would... they’d have to go in after her. He just prayed she didn’t get terribly lost in there, and that she survived.

  
They had to stop her before she reached the Throat and got herself killed.

  
Amuril pulled his hood back up and hurried back to the Dunmer at the top of the ramps. “Tell Tolfdir we will bring the Staff back _here_. One of you will have to take it to the College. I have to go after my _idiot_ of a wife.” Amuril said through grit teeth.

  
He said that because he worried about her. He was terrified for her. He didn’t know what use he or Fallon would be after running through a ruin of their own - one of the largest Nordic ruins in all Tamriel - but hopefully if they found her after she had the Elder Scroll, he could make her see reason. He didn’t know what use Irowe would be to anyone if - _when_ , he forced himself to believe - _when_ she emerged from Alftand.

  
Amuril sighed and reached for his saddle’s horn, climbing into it. They would take Irowe’s horse too. She might need it. “Make sure everyone stays underground. This dragon problem is going to get much worse _very_ quickly.”

  
The Adept squinted up at him. “I’m sorry?”

  
“Just go.” Amuril snapped.

  
He flicked the reins and urged his horse to a gallop, Fallon following not far behind.

  
It was early morning when they finally reached the Wayward Pass through the Winterhold Mountains. The glint of a Dwemer tower caught his eye and lodged a lump in his throat. Fallon paused with him on the plateau, silent once he saw what Amuril was gazing at.

  
It had been hours since she ran off. There was no telling how far into the ruin she was, but... Amuril pulled off his glove and brushed the gem of his ring. The glow was faint with her being so far below them; much fainter than he had feared, but the glow was steady. Amuril inhaled. She was very far below them and... He held his hand off to the south, settling in the south-southwest. She had to be deep inside the ruin, making very good progress, and the light was still steady.

  
“Are we going in after her?” Fallon asked quietly.

  
“No. She’s doing better than I expected. I hope.” Amuril tugged the glove back on, feeling some faint relief making it easier to breathe. “We’ll have to catch up with her at the Steps, before she can reach the Throat. She could even be in Blackreach by now, but I doubt it.”

  
He rubbed the gem through his glove, wishing there was some way he could let her know he was near the entrance and thinking of her. If he had really thought about it years ago, he would have enchanted the rings with some variation of Mark and Recall so he could go right to her. He didn’t doubt that such a thing was possible, but likely only among the Telvanni or Direnni, and convincing either to bother listening long enough to take an ungodly amount of gold for the enchantment was laughably unlikely.

  
Amuril shook his head and stirred the horse into a walk, leading her up into the mountains.

  
The pass was thankfully deserted, as were the roads curving around the Winterholds and then south into the Stonehills. They passed a small mining town Amuril vaguely remembered from the dozens of times walking this road. Labyrinthian wasn’t much further south.

  
“Excuse me.” Amuril called out, dismounting and walking his horse up to a patrolling guard. “We’re making a pilgrimage to Labyrinthian. I don’t see that you have a stable but could you possibly look after our horses while we’re gone?”

  
The guard stopped and tilted her helmet nearly sideways, squinting up at him. “You _mad_ , Elf? Nobody goes up there. Only frost trolls, ice wraiths and Shor knows what else.”

  
“Well, I _want_ to.” Amuril said firmly.

  
He held the reins out to her. She didn’t take them, just kept staring. Fallon climbed down as well and cleared his throat, walking his horses beside Amuril’s. The guard rolled her eyes and gave an Irowe-worthy dramatic sigh.

  
“When you don’t come back in three days, we’re keeping the horses.” She still took the reins, throwing Fallon a sad expression. She shook her head and patted the horse’s withers. “Come on, girls. Let’s get you settled in. We could use you to make Thane Bryling’s shipments, you know...”

  
Amuril pulled off his saddlebags, and Fallon had done the same with three of his four, leaving behind the one holding the horses’ tack and feed. Amuril checked the potion bag, pushing the bottles around as they clicked together, reading the tiny labels with Fallon’s fine print. He noted with dread that they only had his portion of the magicka potions. That was relieving in a sense, that Irowe had her share, but worrying for him. He would have to be careful with his reserves...

  
“Come on.” Amuril murmured, throwing the bags over his shoulder. Fallon huffed and hurried alongside him, puffing a little under all the weight. “We can leave the camping gear outside the ruins, and whatever we don’t need. The clothes and such.” Amuril offered. Fallon nodded, his focus more on walking than responding.

  
Thankfully the road wasn’t far, and downhill, and while the wind blew cold into their faces, it wasn’t very strong. He could see the ruin a little ways up the hills, but not the path. After several minutes of waiting and pushing away bushes and snow drifts looking for some sort of trail, Amuril finally sighed and made his own. If the guard was right, there might not _be_ one anymore, or if there was it was buried under all the snow.

  
Old snow and ice crunched under their feet, and Amuril kept his pace short so Fallon could follow in his footsteps. He pushed back bent branches, trying to see where the staircase started again. If he remembered correctly, it was on the southwestern side...

  
They stepped around a pine and the ancient walls loomed out of the mountain, just barely blocking out the sun. A rash of goosebumps broke out on Amuril’s arms as he saw the steps cut into the stone. His face fell as they came to the foot of them and he saw just how high they climbed, and the thick layer of ice on every step. Perhaps that was the reason no one came here, at least this time of year.

  
Fallon kept right on walking until Amuril grabbed his shoulders and pulled him off the first step. “No, no I don’t trust those, not in winter.” Amuril muttered.

  
Fallon frowned. “We have to get up there somehow. We just have to be careful.”

  
Amuril shook his head and rolled up his sleeves. He really shouldn’t use his magicka like this, but it would save time and that was more precious than his magicka.

  
“I’m going to cast Levitation again. We need to make it up to...” He squinted, then pointed to a flat area four flights above them. “That landing at least, before the spell wears out.”

  
Fallon held his hands up. “Wait, how- how do you use it to go up?”

  
“It’s just like climbing stairs.” Amuril said. He cast on Fallon with his left, and himself with his right. He grabbed Fallon’s hand tightly. “Come on now. And look _ahead_.”

  
Fallon started to go up the stairs. Amuril went straight up. Fallon grabbed onto his wrist with both hands and stumbled in the air, looking down and up and down again. Amuril went a little slower at first, until Fallon was starting to climb on his own power as well, before ascending in earnest.

  
The cliffs and ledges were covered in ice so they couldn’t hug the walls too closely. Amuril preferred the shortest route - straight up - but Fallon needed constant reminding to keep his eyes above his shoulders. They reached the second landing with time to spare, and Amuril got them up to a long bridge before the spell ran out. He waited for Fallon to catch his breath before casting the spell again. There were at least six more landings to go.

  
When they finally reached the gate Fallon collapsed panting onto the snow and kissed it. Amuril looked out over the spacious plaza. There had been trolls here - particularly large ones - for as long as he could remember. It was late winter however, and even the lean and old trolls would be holed up in their dens.

  
“Try to stay quiet.” Amuril murmured. Fallon brushed snow off his knees and cocked his head. “There are always trolls here, but they should all be hibernating. We don’t want to wake any up.”

  
Fallon’s eyes grew and he nodded mutely. They set foot into the city proper and Amuril took out the torc from Mirabelle, from Savos, and cast a quiet scrying spell on it. A coiling shimmer of magic turned over the snow, leading off to the right, toward the tallest and most elaborate building and - he sighed. More stairs.

  
They kept to the middle of the streets, away from the doorless buildings that made ideal dens. Amuril waited until they were at the base of the stairs to cast Levitation again, but while the stairs were far steeper than the main road’s, both mer were accustomed to the spell by now.

  
A blue blur shot past him up the steps and Amuril wheeled backwards in alarm.

  
“Hurry up, you lot! We’re finally here!” The mer laughed and threw his arms in the air.

  
Amuril peered up at the ghost, his arm shielding’s Fallon’s chest. The ghost - a young journeyman of... Restoration - had a thin dark beard and bright eyes that seemed to look past them, like he didn’t even notice the two living mer were there. Amuril frowned. He’d heard that voice before...

  
What were ghosts doing here? No: that was the wrong question. What was _this_ ghost doing here? There had to be thousands of others that walked the city, but a mage in particular-

  
“Are you sure this is a good idea? This place has been abandoned for centuries.” An Argonian’s gravelly voice questioned.

  
Amuril and Fallon turned around. There were five ghosts in total climbing the steps, and Fallon watched the procession with raised eyebrows. Amuril warily took Fallon’s hand and led him up to the last landing, where they stood some distance from the ghosts. Not that any of them noticed.

  
“We’ll be back at the College before anyone even knows we’re gone.” A Redguard warlock sighed, cresting the stairs to join the journeyman.

  
“Oh yes, wouldn’t want the Arch-Mage to think you’re not _responsible_ , would we, Atmah?” A short man snipped at the woman. No, a short mer; the only men shorter than Fallon were other Bosmer.

  
“Enough, Girduin. This _was_ her idea.” The journeyman said. Amuril swore he _had_ heard that voice before, but where...

  
“Can we just get inside? I’m sure the rest of you are freezing.” A bulky apprentice sulked - a Nord judging from the accent.

  
The ghosts continued toward the monolithic round door at the top of the stairs. The leader - Atmah - cast a spell then pounded her fist against the door just underneath a dragon’s figurehead. Amuril’s eyes widened: the Staff of Magnus was on her back. Atmah disappeared into the door taking the Staff with her and the others followed, leaving him and Fallon alone in the late morning stillness.

  
_It’s well and truly lost... and for everyone’s sake, it’s best it remains that way..._

  
“Arch-Mage Aren.”

  
“What?”

  
Amuril held a hand to his brow and shook his head. “The Arch-Mage. He was one of those ghosts. He told me that the Staff had been lost years ago, but he never said...” Amuril frowned.

  
The Arch-Mage said something about a predecessor making sure no records were found of it, but nothing about being part of an undoubtedly failed expedition. It explained why the Synod had come to the College looking for it, and why Arch-Mage Aren knew exactly where to look.

  
“But he’s dead.” Fallon said. “He didn’t die _here_ , he died at the College.”

  
“Spirits have a habit of lingering in important places in their lives, not necessarily their place of death.” Amuril turned around; it was a breathtaking view of the city and the northwestern holds of Skyrim. He could even see the Sea of Ghosts in the distance. “This place was important to him.”

  
“ _Why_? There’s nothing here.” Fallon gestured to the ruins. The wind seemed to agree with him.

  
Amuril sighed and slid the torc into the stone dragon’s mouth. “Keep your wits about you. Whatever’s in there, the Arch-Mage wanted to send a team of masters in to deal with it.”

  
“And they sent us instead...” Fallon muttered weakly.

  
Amuril glared down at him but said nothing. He felt the same. Amuril knocked on the ceremonial door and the ancient stone shuddered before sliding out of their way, ice breaking from the roof and splintering on the ground as the door scrapped into the floor. Fallon took the time to string his bow and they both checked that they were ready before following the ghosts into the mountain.

  
Inside, a long moldy thoroughfare littered with skeletons greeted them. A few broken skylights with colored glass underneath them let in the sunlight, scattering tiny rainbows on the mossy stones. Up ahead before a large gate reminiscent of Saarthal’s entrance, the ghosts had gathered again.

  
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” A young woman squealed, bouncing with excitement.

  
“I can’t either. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when we get back!” Savos said.

  
“I’m not convinced there’s anything _useful_ left to find. That road below us is a major trade route, and looters could get in here just as easily as we did.” The Nord’s ghost kicked at a crumbling skeleton; the powder from its bones had preserved his footprint in the decades since he’d broken them.

  
“This place was once the capital of Skyrim, Hafnar.” Girduin said, jotting marks down quickly in his journal. “There’s bound to be _something_ still here, tucked away. And looters can’t find everything.” He snapped the book shut and returned it to his satchel.

  
“But what if they couldn’t take what they found? What if there are... _things_ , guarding this place?”

  
Atmah laid her hand on the Argonian’s shoulder. “All six of us are College-trained mages. I think we’ll be fine.” The ghosts faded into the air as they walked deeper into the ruin.

  
“Says the _ghosts_.” Fallon said, nodding slowly.

  
“We won’t make the same mistakes. We know this place is dangerous.”

  
Fallon laughed drily and rubbed his arms. “Judging from the skeletons _at the front door_ , yeah, I’d say it’s dangerous.”

  
“But _we_ know what we’re looking for.” Amuril stated.

  
He busied himself helping Fallon sort through their things on a table - what they absolutely needed to take and what could be left behind. As much as he hated wishing ill on people, Amuril hoped that this Atmah had died somewhere just inside the ruin. It wasn’t _really_ wishing ill on her as she was obviously already dead; that didn’t count, did it? Amuril shook his head and cinched the pack of the things to be left tight, leaving it inside the mouth of an overturned hawk grotesque.

  
They walked down the ancient stairs much lighter, strands of sunlight flitting over them. “Go in. Find the Staff. Get out.”

  
The walk was thankfully uneventful as they descended past caved in arches and side streets. Dust seeped through broken ceilings and now and then a falling rock made their hearts race. The city, so far, was abandoned; not even Savos’ group could be found haunting the subterranean streets.

  
At last the main road came to a large gate of soapstone, cordoning off an enormous plaza. Pillars with still-lit braziers dotting their columns cast a warm glow on the smoke-filled cavern, and at the end - he presumed - was the other end of the road.

  
“Why’s this locked off?” Fallon asked, suspicion tinging his voice.

  
He stalked around, crinkling his nose, but there didn’t seem to be any other path save narrow alleys. Amuril peered through the gate. He couldn’t see any sarcophagi, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. This was a Nordic ruin, they were bound to run into that branch of undead at some point, and the gate would explain why they hadn’t had trouble so far.

  
“Draugr perhaps; be ready.”

  
Fallon nodded and nocked an arrow. Amuril cast a bound armor spell on both of them and pulled the lever, opening the gate. They walked through cautiously, keeping their ears open. Amuril cast Detect Dead and was rewarded with a dozen red auras ambling toward them. The creak of bones and withered sinew told him what they were.

  
“Skeletons.” Amuril said quietly. Fallon returned the arrow and started untangling the Dwemer axes from his belt-

  
The gate slammed shut behind them.

  
“What the-?!”

  
“Get it open!” Amuril shouted, looking around for another lever. He paled when he saw it: laying in pieces across the stairs, the wall where it was meant to be was smashed. It almost looked like... like it’d been bitten off and chewed by something- something with a terrifyingly large mouth-

  
A roar and the sound of something heavy scraping against stone made every one of his hairs stand on end. Amuril turned and pressed himself against the wall. It was in the middle of the plaza. Firelight gleamed off clean bones larger than they were tall.

  
A dragon.

  
It roared. Fallon screamed. Amuril latched onto his wrist and conjured a flame atronach in front of them.

  
“ _Run!_ ”

  
Amuril sent the atronach straight at the dragon as they raced off to the left, ducking behind the pillars. The dragon roared - he wondered how it could, without lungs - and charged the atronach. Amuril recast Detect Dead long enough to glimpse where the skeletons were. Stars, there were a few score of them and more emerging from every crack in the stones.

  
Amuril kept repeating to himself that Savos at least had made it through this when he was just a journeyman. There was hope, there was a chance. He focused on that and not that Savos must have been a century and a half younger than him, or that for all he knew Savos had been trapped on the _other_ side of the door and fled.

  
They dodged one skeleton and then another. The flame atronach shrieked and exploded behind them and the dragon roared, searching for them again. It roared again and there was no mistaking that it had found them. The dragon bellowed and charged, knocking skeletons out of its way as it barreled down the street. His heart was pounding and the ground was shaking-

  
They reached the small corridor at the end and Amuril threw Fallon ahead. They tumbled down the stairs, shouting in pain as they kept rolling. Fallon came to a stop at the bottom and Amuril narrowly avoided landing on top of him. The dragon roared, its head and neck snaking down the corridor after them-

  
Its ribcage crashed against the walls, shaking dirt down from the ceiling. Fallon was screaming. Amuril grabbed him in his arms and stumbled to his feet, hurrying further down the corridor. The dragon stopped roaring, all was quiet for a few heartbeats, then ice exploded down the steps and the floor behind them.

  
“Amuril, stop- stop-”

  
Amuril kept running. Fallon tapped his arms and kicked his feet until Amuril had to let go. When he did, he saw that the frost breath had stopped far behind them. The dragon couldn’t reach them in here.

  
Amuril collapsed on the ground, panting, and Fallon joined him. They both kept a wary eye on the corridor but so far they looked to be alone. The dragon bellowed, the noise echoing down the hall.

  
“We’re trapped in here. We’re trapped in here- We can’t run back through there- the gate’s broken. We’re trapped in here. We’re trapped-”

  
“ _No_!” A woman wailed. Amuril ducked before he was slapped in the face by flailing ghostly arms.

  
“Elvali, no!” The Nord yelled. He and the Argonian restrained the young Dunmer from running back up the tunnel.

  
“We can’t leave him! We can’t leave Girduin!”

  
“You go back in there that monster will kill you too!” The Nord shouted in her face.

  
“I don’t care-!”

  
“There isn’t enough of him _left_ to go back for!” Atmah snapped, shaking her colleague into sanity. Elvali sobbed and dropped to the floor, wailing the Bosmer’s name. Atmah stared at her shaking hands and started to cry herself.

  
“I’m sorry. Gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for...”

  
The ghosts looked at each other and back up the tunnel. The dragon growled. Amuril swallowed pulled Fallon into his arms, more so he had something to hold, to remind himself that they were alive. They’d both made it through alive. Fallon was shaking, and Amuril had to admit he was as well.

  
Irowe should have been here. He tightened his grip on Fallon and rocked back and forth, stroking and patting Fallon’s back until his breathing quieted. Irowe should have come with them, and the more he dwelt on it the more the rage grew. Nordic ruins were something she naturally excelled at. She could have actually killed that thing... if it could be killed.

  
“We have to keep moving.” Savos said, laying his hand on Atmah’s shoulder. Elvali was still sobbing. “We can still do this. For Girduin.” He looked around at the other ghosts, pleading with them to agree. It was a long, uneasy moment before Atmah nodded her head.

  
“Savos is right. We can make it- we just have to stay alert.” She knelt down and helped Elvali up. “Come on. On your feet, Elvali...”

  
The group looked around briefly before walking through a heavy door.

  
“What _was_ that thing anyway? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  
“Oblivion if I know...” The Nord muttered.

  
The five ghosts disappeared, leaving the two elves alone with the dragon stuck in the stairway above them. It was hard for Amuril to remember that even a year ago people didn’t know what a dragon looked like. Stars, most people _these days_ didn’t know what dragons looked like.

  
The dragon growled and tried to push further in, shaking more dust loose from the ceiling. Amuril shivered. If it left the stairs, the skeletons could come after them. They had to keep moving. Amuril patted Fallon’s shoulder and let him stand up before standing up himself. The corridor didn’t go much further, and the door the ghosts departed down looked to be the only way onward. There was a plinth however, standing alone with a tablet etched in... Amuril frowned. It looked like an ancient form of Nordic runes.

  
“Didn’t one of them say this place was the capital once?”

  
Amuril shook his head. “He must have mistaken this place with Saarthal.”

  
Saarthal was _the_ first Nordic capital, built by Ysgramor himself before the Night of Tears and rebuilt when the Five Hundred Companions returned from Atmora. Windhelm was built not long afterwards, and remained the capital for the remainder of the early Nordic Empires after Saarthal was abandoned. Labyrinthian was a sprawling ruined city, yes, but it had never been the capital. There was simply no time period it could have been the capital... except...

  
Amuril stared up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Perhaps the Nords had been in Skyrim for several centuries _longer_ than the Middle Merethic. Every mention of the dragons or the dragon cult - outside of victories over them - had been not so much scrubbed from history as never written down. The Nords could have been here much earlier than first thought, under the dragons, but due to the stigma collectively forgotten by their descendants.

  
Amuril sighed and pulled out his journal, making a quick rubbing of the tablet. Yet another thing that would have been easier if Irowe were present. Getting her or her dragons to talk wasn’t the problem; getting them to _stop_ was.

  
“Are we ready?” He asked, replacing the journal.

  
“As we’ll ever be.” Fallon muttered. “I hope there’s another exit.”

  
“Savos got out somehow.” Amuril reminded him, pushing open the iron door and leaving the rumbling dragon behind them.

  
The road behind it led to a crossroads: the left was caved in, and on the right was a small chamber down some stairs.  There was what looked to be a frost spell of some sort on a door to the right-

  
“ _Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?_ ”

  
Amuril collapsed at the stair’s base and gasped for breath. He could feel the magicka leeching from his body. He felt on the verge of passing out but he forced himself to stay conscious.

  
“Amuril!”

  
The strange light faded and he crumpled to the floor. Fallon was beside him in a moment, reaching for a potion.

  
“Are you alright? What was that?”

  
Stars, he was going to be sick. “I’m... fine...”

  
Fallon glared down at him. “You’re _not_ fine!”

  
He didn’t argue further, instead helping Amuril sit up enough to drink the potion. Amuril waited for the room to stop spinning to try standing. It took three tries, and he still used Fallon’s shoulder for support once he was up, just until his feet steadied.

  
They searched the room carefully, searching for the source of that voice. The chamber was solid stone however, with no sign of damage other than age. The only possibility was the ice door.

  
“Fallon, did the voice hurt you?”

  
Fallon chewed his lip and thought a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

  
“You don’t have magicka.” Amuril said, wagging a finger at Fallon.

  
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The voice had only drained his magicka, and Fallon had so little in his body he couldn’t heal a simple papercut. Amuril’s reserves however had been honed since he was a child, increased over the years to handle master spells or prolonged fights with other mages. Amuril leaned against the wall as it dawned on him.

  
“That might be what happened to the College mages. They’re mages, and the voice drains magicka. But you’re not a mage, so...”

  
“It doesn’t hurt me?” Fallon finished.

  
“Exactly.” Amuril snapped his fingers. “It must be somewhere behind that door.”

  
Fallon turned and stared at the door, keeping quiet aside for a gulp. Amuril fixed his gloves and straightened his robes. He wasn’t used to being the bait, but he could defend himself. Usually. Amuril swallowed and took a step toward the door.

  
“I’m going to attempt luring it out, are you ready?”

  
Fallon grabbed his bow and started stringing it. He went through the arrows in his quiver and picked one he liked the best. Amuril waited until Fallon had the arrow nocked to approach the door.

  
“Here goes...”

  
Amuril tested a weak flame spell against the enchanted ice. It crumbled instantly-

  
Two ghostly hands shot from the ice and seized Amuril by the throat. Amuril choked and tried to grip them as he was hoisted in the air, but his hands passed through them. A pair of burning blue eyes in a desiccated face emerged from the falling ice, and the ghostly draugr snarled as it lifted him higher.

  
Fallon’s arrow flew straight to its throat. And through it. Amuril tried to stretch toward the ground, gasping, but he couldn’t reach. Another arrow zipped harmlessly through the ghost. And another. Fallon jerked out an axe and threw it-

  
The axe dug into the ghost’s arm with a blast of fire. The ghost snarled and dropped Amuril, turning instead to Fallon. Fallon reached for his second axe but it caught in his belt-

  
Amuril shot a ball of fire at the ghost. It turned, and a firebolt landed on its face. He kept casting until the ghost melted into a gelatinous pool of ash on the stones, Fallon’s axe clattering to the ground. Fallon scooped it up and slung the pack of potions off his shoulders, setting it down next to Amuril-

  
“No. Fallon, we need to save the potions. I’ll be fine.” Amuril rasped.

  
Fallon looked from him rubbing his throat to the bag, but slowly set the pack back on his shoulders and helped Amuril up for the second time. Amuril sighed and patted his shoulder. His heart was in the right place, but he had a feeling this was only just beginning.

  
The door led down a flight of steps and opened on a vast chasm, natural and man-made bridges crisscrossing the foggy depths. And in some alcoves he could see the sarcophagi he’d dreaded finding. So there were draugr in here, and Savos’ party were not the only ghosts haunting the ruins. Amuril winced and stroked a finger over his neck, casting a low healing spell. He hoped that ghost draugr had been the source of the magicka draining voice, but he doubted-

  
“ _Nivahriin muz fent siiv nid aaz het..._ ”

  
Amuril cried out and grabbed at his chest. Stars, there was a drop ahead-

  
Fallon yanked on Amuril’s belt and pulled him to safety. Somewhere below them he heard the grunt of a draugr. His magicka drained more quickly this time, and he bottomed out on the floor, panting and feeling a cold sweat dampen his robes. Amuril groaned and lay there, waiting for his magicka to return.

  
“What keeps doing that?” Fallon whispered.

  
“I don’t know. I don’t know... I need to rest for a bit...”

  
Fallon nodded and set his axes down carefully, peering out over the ledge at the bridges and corridors. There were lit braziers dotted here and there, but he didn’t understand why. The draugr didn’t need the light or the warmth, and finding fuel down here must be quite an endeavor. Fallon took out his bow while Amuril drank from his waterskin, creeping closer to the ledge. Fallon nocked an arrow and held the bow deathly still, then released. Far below there was a surprised gurgle.

  
“No. No no-” Fallon whispered. An echoing wet thump, then another fainter one, and another- “Why do they keep doing that?!” Fallon hissed, slapping his thighs and throwing his hands in the air.

  
“Fallon, save your arrows. We can’t kill every draugr in this place.”

  
“I was trying to get you a _sword_ , so you don’t have to conjure one. And then it goes and it _falls off the ledge_ and-!”

  
The young mer kicked a rock off the ledge and dropped down into a crosslegged position, folding his arms over his chest and sulking. Amuril smiled. He didn’t want to remind Fallon that as good an idea as it was, he didn’t think he’d be able to wield a sword while his magicka was being eaten away. It was very thoughtful however.

  
“Thank you Fallon. It’s a good idea, but let’s act on it away from any ledges.”

  
“Sorry.” Fallon muttered.

  
Amuril reached over and patted his knee. “You’re fine, Fallon.”

  
Amuril sighed and climbed to his feet, holding onto the rocks and roots of the wall for support. He’d leaned on Fallon enough times today.

  
They continued on, at Amuril’s pace, with no clear path through the web of bridges. There were dozens of dead ends, or crumbled bridges they didn’t want to chance crossing. The draugr were, eerily enough, few and far between. One or two slumbering in a room here or there, but the city was, for the most part, deserted.

  
Amuril led Fallon across yet another bridge where they came upon an iron door with a rune on the door. He made sure he and Fallon were well out of range before setting it off with a firebolt. As they approached the door however, they heard the shuffling of feet.

  
Amuril opened the door and a second later an arrow shot through it, embedding itself in the half-naked draugr stumbling around inside. Fallon retrieved his arrow and cut off the draugr’s head to make doubly certain it was dead.

  
Amuril stilled as he looked around the room. The room was a small enchanting chamber, with soul gems empty and filled stocked on all sides of the room, with a table in the corner. And a skeleton draped in a tattered robe of Conjuration from the College of Winterhold. Amuril approached it reverently, carefully kneeling next to the slumped remains. There was no tail, so not the Argonian. The bones looked too slim to be the Nord, or Atmah, so...

  
“Elvali...” Amuril murmured. She or one of the others must have set the rune on the door to keep the draugr out, not realizing there was already one inside.

  
Amuril bowed his head and sighed. He couldn’t say if Arkay helped Dunmer after death or if it fell to one of their Daedra. He wasn’t even sure which one of them to invoke to ease their dead. He couldn’t even remember the third one, so he called on the one he heard of most often.

  
“Azura, please help her find peace.” Amuril asked, laying a hand on the hooded skull. Flakes of dried skin fluttered down onto the stained table.

  
He stood up and looked around for Fallon. The mer reentered the room dusting his hair of cobwebs. He shook his head.

  
“There’s just the one door.” Fallon sighed, pointing to it with his bow tip.

  
Amuril nodded. “I suspected as such.”

  
“We’ve tried everything on this side.”

  
“I know.” Amuril sighed.

  
He suspected Savos’ group also spent more than a few hours testing every path for one that would lead back to the surface, or further down. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, between Atmah’s ‘expedition’ and now, but judging from the Mages Guild robes, it was two hundred years at least. The ruin could have changed a lot in two hundred years, and whatever path the College mages had taken could have crumbled into the ravine decades ago.

  
Amuril shook his head. “We’ll head back to the ghost draugr’s door. We’ll try the bridge across from it first. I’ll go first.”

  
“I’m lighter-”

  
“I am going first.” Amuril stated firmly. Fallon started to frown at him and he laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll need you on this side with your bow, in case there’s trouble waiting for us.”

  
Fallon exhaled slowly and nodded, letting Amuril lead the way back out to the chasm. The way to the ice door was quiet save the dripping stones and a faint, stale wind. Amuril swallowed and looked out at the bridge leading straight away from the door, across the chasm. They had both agreed before not to cross it - it was little more than a thin carpet of slick moss - but... they had tried everywhere else.

  
He waited until Fallon had an arrow nocked and ready to pull taut before venturing out over the thin crust. The underside of the worn capstone started to crumble and he held still, ready to jump back to safety if it gave way. The pebbles stopped raining down onto lower bridges, and it felt as firm as it was before... Amuril swallowed and continued on.

  
He started the motions for a Levitation spell, but concentrating on the exact movements, while watching where and how lightly to step, while trying not to fall was-

  
“ _Must I use this... guttural tongue of yours?_ ”

  
Amuril dropped to his knees with a gasp. The spell fizzled into the damp air. The bridge cracked and plummeted, taking him with it.

  
“ _Amuril!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Dragon Tongue translation (for mobile users)
> 
>   * Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?: Who comes to my dark kingdom?
>   * Nivahriin muz fent siiv nid aaz het: Cowardly men shall find no mercy here
> 



	28. The Haunted Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaay I'm throwing this up early because I'm going out of town and away from the computer for the weekend. Enjoy!

 

 

> _"It took several weeks before I felt comfortable approaching the dragon priest's resting place, myself. Inch by inch, until the snarling draugrs around me seemed to tire of fending off my timid presence."_
> 
> _\-- Bernadette Bantien  
>  _

* * *

 

MIST whipped past him as he struggled to breathe. The chasm’s walls rushed up as the bridge fell- The bridge smashed into another, the crack and rumble of stone echoing up and down the chasm. Down, far below, there was a faint light in the mists, but it faded as soon as he saw it. Amuril’s breath came ragged as he felt his magicka return at last. He wondered if that light was connected to the Voice-

  
The bridge slammed into something, some curved archway this time, and he was thrown to the side. He was mostly clear of the debris but had nothing to break his fall on the long way down. His magicka wasn’t nearly strong enough yet to manage a Levitation spell, but that wouldn’t save him if the spell was too weak to hold him. He needed more magicka-

  
The mist began to clear and darken: he was near the bottom. Amuril inhaled and cast Equilibrium with his ward hand, drawing magicka from his own lifeblood, and cast Slowfall in the other. His descent wrenched to a stop and he cried out. Stars, it hurt to breathe...

  
The danger of falling mitigated, Amuril caught his breath and weakly wove a healing spell. It was nowhere near as soothing as Irowe’s would have been, but the minor aches were gone.

  
The chasm rumbled as the bridge and debris crashed into the bottom, followed by the squelch and splashes of water. He drifted down, aiming for a broken pillar jutting out of the dark pool, and collapsed onto it, grateful to have something solid beneath him. His heart was still racing in his throat and he lay there, listening to the whistles and plops of stones and pebbles falling from the bridges above.

  
“ _Amuril!_ ”

  
“Fallon, I’m alright! Stay up there!” Amuril exhaled. Stars, he was tired just from that... “I’ll come back up for you, I just need to... rest a moment.”

  
“... Alright.” The reply echoed down.

  
Amuril’s head fell back onto the stone pillar and he closed his eyes. He had a few minutes at least before he would feel safe enough to move. He listened for shuffling feet or the crack and clatter of stones falling from above, but there was only the lap of water below and the rasp of the wind.

  
He coughed and looked around slowly. The murk below was littered with debris and skeletons, and a mammoth’s ribcage jutted from the water. Amuril squinted up the chasm; it was too far to see but he presumed somewhere above was a sinkhole that led to the creature’s demise in years past. Amuril shook his head and sat up, leaning back on his elbows and staring at the edge of the pool. A flight of stairs led down into the murk and up into boulders in the shadows. The steps were broad, and had been well kept in centuries past.

  
Amuril rolled over and crawled up the pillar until he could look behind him. There was an iron door down a tunnel the width of the stairs, but it was half-submerged by the pool. He did think he saw a flicker of magicka around the door...

  
A nagging voice in his head - Magister Galen’s, of course - berated him for bothering to cast Water Walking, for dropping down to investigate. He knew better than to venture on alone, with Fallon on his own several stories above. However, he didn’t intend to come back down here again, especially if it was a dead end like all the others. Amuril bit his lip and frowned. It had been some time since he’d used an Open spell-

  
“ _Have you returned, Aren? My... old **friend**?_ ”

  
The doors bloomed with light and seemed to pulse as the Voice spoke and stole the air from his lungs. Amuril forced himself to his feet and ran back to the chasm. The edges of the tunnel were blurred and it burned to breathe, but he kept going. When the Voice stopped leeching him he dropped to his knees on the water, arms trembling.

  
Fallon. He had to get Fallon. As soon as he had enough magicka to cast Levitation.

  
Amuril panted and looked around. He didn’t see any draugr, or skeletons, but the idea of crouching on the pool’s surface with gods only knew what underneath made his skin crawl. Could draugr swim? Did they even need to breathe?

  
He pulled himself to his feet by a pillar and shakily wove the spell, pushing away from the water as soon as he could. The journey to the top was long, with bridges and broken pillars looming out of the mist far more frequently than he remembered on the descent.

  
“Fallon? I’m coming up but I can hardly see. Where are you?”

  
“I’m here!” Fallon called out from above.

  
“Do you have everything?” Amuril asked. He didn’t sound that far away, and if he could simply grab Fallon and cast Slowfall, even better.

  
“Yes.” A pause. “Please hurry. There’s company up here somewhere.”

  
Amuril went faster. “Move to the edge. I’ll come get you.”

  
“Okay.”

  
Amuril went closer to the walls, far enough away that anything on them couldn’t grab him. The mist clung to his beading forehead. The air was heavy and it was too quiet. “Fallon, talk to me.”

  
“I’m- I’m still here.” Closer. “I see it.”

  
“Hold on.”

  
He was nearly there. The chasm echoed with the draugr’s grunt.

  
“It sees me-!”

  
“Hold on-!”

  
“ _Fus... Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The wall above him exploded and chunks of the chasm wall rained down. Amuril pressed himself against the wall, away from the larger rocks, and looked around wildly. Stars no-

  
“ _Fallon!_ ”

  
“Help!”

  
He wheeled around. Fallon was sprawled on the ground and the draugr was advancing on him - on the opposite side of the chasm. Amuril’s face twisted but he started casting. He wouldn’t make it over there in time-

  
“Jump!”

  
Fallon rolled - into the Slowfall spell - and over the edge, the draugr’s sword striking the stones behind him. Amuril followed the Slowfall with a fireball from his ward hand, dropping down after Fallon without staying to see if it landed or not.

  
“Amuril!”

  
“You’re fine! You’ll be fine!” Amuril yelled. The fireball exploded above. He cast a Slowfall spell on himself, in case the Levitation wore off. “I’ll come to you. Just stay still.”

  
“Oh-okay.”

  
Amuril landed on a bridge and ran across it, diving off once he was on the other side of the chasm. He could barely see Fallon somewhere in the mist below him. After a minute he saw the bright red hair and hurried down to him. Fallon slumped with relief when Amuril took his hand and the two floated the rest of the way down to the pool.

  
Amuril picked Fallon up and cast Water Walking. Fallon looked down at the water, then up at Amuril, the water, then Amuril again.

  
“I _can_ walk by myself.”

  
“This conserves magicka.”

  
This time he made it all the way to the iron doors, although it took him two tries to work the Open spell. He was used to working with well-oiled locks - on his and Irowe’s trunk back at the Embassy that she sometimes misplaced the key for - but this lock had rusted almost completely away over time. The doors creaked apart then the water slammed the doors open, flooding the mossy walkway behind.

  
A grunt echoed up ahead. Fallon stiffened. Amuril looked around: there was no way of telling how deep the water was here, or if there was anything in it. Fallon slowly, methodically took his bow in hand and lifted himself up. Amuril finally understood what he was doing and helped him sit on his shoulders. He caught the glimmer of glowing blue eyes in the dark beyond the gate.

  
Amuril - carefully - shot a fireball through the bars. It collided with the draugr and exploded, illuminating a handful of others and skeletons creaking toward them. Amuril fired again, aiming for the skeletons. He heard the quiet sigh and hiss of Fallon’s bow just above his ears and tried very, very hard to if not stand still, at least move smoothly.

  
When he shot off another fireball and it continued down the hall so far it faded to embers, and no blue eyes followed, Amuril worked on opening the gate. They trudged inside, following a freshly cast magelight down the corridor.

  
“This place... smells... _horrible..._ ” Fallon whispered.

  
Amuril looked around. The walls were concave and covered with thick, slick slime. Given how far they’d fallen, and the similar architecture to the Midden, there was only one explanation.

  
“This used to be the sewers.” He muttered.

  
“Well it should have stopped smelling _ages ago_ -”

  
“ _Have you come to finish that which you could not?_ ”

  
Amuril seized and dropped to his knees. Fallon shrieked as he dropped half into the water, only catching himself on Amuril’s shoulders and clawing at his robes. Amuril tried to help him, to hold on, but making his arms work while breathing at the same time was too much to ask. Fallon helped himself, wrapping his arms around Amuril’s chest and pulling himself up against the water’s flow.

  
Amuril focused on his magicka. He still had a few minutes before the Water Walking spell ran out but at least his magicka was recovering, albeit slowly-

  
“ _You only face failure once more._ ”

  
Fallon was ready this time, and the spell wouldn’t allow Amuril to sink any lower. Amuril looked up, watching the tendrils of light that flitted down the sewers, noting their direction. He laid there, gaping and retching like a landed fish and dreading the Voice’s next words. Fallon patted Amuril’s back, trying to help him breathe or at least forget the pain in his chest and head. When he had the magicka Amuril cast Water Walking again - in case the Voice spoke again... but it didn’t. The halls were silent save the rushing water.

  
When he felt well enough they continued on. Toward the Voice and, he hoped, the city proper.

  
The corridor opened out into another, larger one with more groundwater flowing fast. Amuril recast Water Walking and they carried on, following the water downstream. As Amuril suspected, they eventually came to a reservoir and some sort of dumping area, perhaps once a slum by the water supply. A mewling sound made them freeze. Fallon stared ahead and tapped Amuril’s shoulder.

  
“Troll den.”

  
Amuril’s skin prickled. He could hear it now, the shuffling of feet and cries of the young. He couldn’t see them in the dark, but he knew they were somewhere below and he couldn’t recast magelight. There was a barred wall on the right with some light filtering through it. To his tired eyes, it looked like there was a wall beyond, and a gate. The outskirts of the city perhaps, or a divide between sectors.

  
“Stay very, very still.” Amuril murmured.

  
Fallon nodded and held on tightly. Amuril recast levitation and held tightly to Fallon’s shins. They walked through the air, Amuril doing his best to look straight ahead and move as fast as he could without drawing attention. When they got to the bars they had to turn sideways and reposition so they were as flat as possible, but they did make it through and into the light.

  
Amuril sighed with relief. There were walls and scattered rays of fading sunshine far above... and what looked like a main avenue. He started descending, heading for the walls. They could walk on the far side, away from the trolls-

  
“ _You are not Aren, are you?_ ” The Voice mused. Amuril cried out - the wall was thankfully near enough that Fallon leapt for it. The Voice laughed, echoing down the cavernous walls and streets. “ _Did he send you in his place?_ ”

  
Amuril collapsed in the air. Fallon grabbed his robe’s hem and pulled him down to the wall before he fell down. Amuril looked out over the city. Ahead and... to the right. That was where the Voice was coming from.

  
He focused on breathing until he could think clearly. It seemed... almost certain that whatever, whoever this Voice was... it had caused the demise of Savos’ group. Atmah’s expedition.

  
That made it even more likely that, had they lost the Staff in some final confrontation (where Savos somehow, inexplicably survived) that the Voice now had the Staff of Magnus. In fact it made an odd amount of _sense_. This Voice was draining his magicka but doing no further harm to his person save the aftereffects of being completely drained of magicka. The Staff was more than capable of that.

  
It wasn’t so unlikely that this Voice was using the Staff itself against him, to stop them from taking it. Amuril grimaced. This would be easier if Irowe was here, but she _wasn’t_ , and they would have to make do.

  
He rolled and pushed himself up to his knees, wavering until he steadied himself against the merlons of the wall. They didn’t _need_ Irowe. So what if she was Dragonborn? Aside from the skeletal one above, all their enemies had been the more mundane undead and no doubt a powerful lich or necromancer. Amuril was a master of three schools, and a seasoned battlemage besides. Fallon wasn’t exactly defenseless either. They would be fine, if they kept their wits about them and didn’t get distracted.

  
Amuril hauled himself to his feet and looked around for stairs down to the road. They would be fine.

  
“We have to get back into the main city: it should be somewhere up there.”

  
He pointed to the right. Amuril sighed and shook his head, then cast a magelight in the direction he meant. That was easier to follow and less prone to error if they got turned around.

  
Fallon found the stairs to their left and they descended, taking out scattered forces of skeletons from a safe distance. The road led them through the ancient outskirts and scattered market stalls as the walls they approached grew with each district. The streets, at times, were steeper than some mountains, rivaling the iced-over stairs they levitated over to enter the city. Now and then they would come across a troll, sometimes leading them back into skeletons. It explained the den near the waterworks, and why the undead were stripped of their flesh and some bore cracked bones with teethmarks.

  
Amuril looked around a small plaza, almost but not quite identical to the seventeen others they’d passed through. He couldn’t understand why this place had been abandoned in the first place. It was infinitely more secure than Morthal, which stood wall-less and half sunk in the marshes leading to the Bay of Solitude. Labyrinthian lay in the direct path of a major trade route from Solitude to Whiterun, and before the war in warmer months caravans would frequently weather the frost trolls for its quick pass through the Stonehills. What was left of the city - which was substantial - was entirely stone and would last for several eras more without fail.

  
Yes, there were undead, but in this section at least they had seen more trolls than skeletons. The dragon could easily be dealt with, with enough men and some sort of plan on how to dismember it. This Voice could be dealt with, and he suspected it would be he and Fallon who did so. Lesser undead had little willpower by themselves, and without a stronger will imposing itself on them, they would be little trouble to anyone.

  
He covered a yawn and blinked, checking that they weren’t being followed. And yet these halls and streets had remained vacant since before Shalidor’s day. Saarthal he could understand, given its history, but Labyrinthian? He had never even heard of _attempts_ to recolonize it once it was abandoned.

  
They continued walking, passing a side street that an area lined with tombstones and cracked open coffins. Years ago it must have been a feeding ground for the trolls, but there were little more than bone shards and scraps of fabric left now, and the trolls had moved on.

  
“ _Did he warn you... your power will only strengthen **me**?_ ”

  
Amuril pitched forward and barely raised his arms in front of his head before falling facedown. He bit his lips and inner cheek and kept his head above his chest. Stars, he wasn’t going to be sick, he _was_ sick. He was sick and he was exhausted from running around this damn ruin and he was so tired of having his magicka sapped away...

  
“What does it mean by that?” Fallon asked. Amuril hung his head. “Amuril?”

  
Amuril rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The light above was faint, and he almost thought he could see stars through the skylights in the rock. How late was it? How long had they been in this tomb?

  
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It is, I believe, using the Staff to drain my magicka.” Amuril exhaled. He didn’t particularly care to revisit the quick meal they’d shared while poking around near the chasm, so he waited until his stomach quieted before speaking again. “The Staff is able to steal magicka, absorb spells and even life force. Though thankfully this Voice seems content to merely take my magicka.”

  
“For the moment...” Fallon muttered.

  
Amuril exhaled and swallowed, folding his hands over his chest and trying to think since he could do little else. On a whim he reached into his pocket and pulled out the fob watch, winding it up again. 7:42. Whether that was seven in the morning or seven at night neither the watch nor the stars would tell him. It was still night above, in the Skyrim winter. He doubted they would reach the Staff before they were completely exhausted. They should have stopped hours ago, but it wasn’t safe and the danger had kept their nerves too high-strung to contemplate sleep.

  
They would have to rest however, if they wanted any chance of making it out alive.

  
“We should get some sleep before continuing on. Let’s try that house, see if it can be barricaded against trolls and these skeletons.”

  
Fallon looked up at him then around the streets before following him to the mentioned house. Amuril checked with Detect Life first, and saw nothing inside the house or for three houses around it. He checked with Detect Dead second, and did not see the telltale red shimmer anywhere. They opened the door, careful to keep it and the lock in working condition, and waited for a magelight to illuminate the walls before stepping fully inside.

  
It was a small house, little more than two rooms and one was half-kitchen, half-bathing area, half-storage room and almost spilled out into the main area. They checked the chests, the boxes, the walls, and the floors for any sign of another entrance, but aside from a back door - easily barricaded with a sturdy dresser - there was only the door they came in.

  
They blocked the front door with a stack of heavy crates. Fallon pulled out their sleeping rolls and swept dust and cobwebs from a bare spot by the inner wall. He set out a few potions - in case they were needed - and rolled up the rest of their gear, hiding it inside a box and setting a trunk on it. Their provisions were in there, and neither of them wanted to risk a troll lean from draugr sniffing out a better meal.

  
Amuril pulled off his belt and loosened his robes, retying the ties further out as it was still cold and lighting a fire was unthinkable. Fallon handed him two softer furs as blankets and retreated to the kitchen area.

  
“Fallon. Come and rest.”

  
The young Bosmer stopped and turned slowly, hugging his arms to his chest. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep.”

  
“You should at least try.” Amuril said.

  
He climbed up and placed runes above and below the two doors, for extra protection and an early warning, and took Fallon’s hand. The young mer needed minimal prompting to crawl underneath the furs and curl up beside him. It was warmer this way, and they could move on sooner if they didn’t have to wait for the other to rest as well. The sooner they were moving again, the better.

  
That and, with Irowe absent, he knew he would have trouble falling asleep without someone breathing beside him. He suspected Fallon understood, and it didn’t need to be stated even if he didn’t.

  
Despite Fallon’s hesitation, he was the first to fall asleep, his breathing light but steady. Amuril relaxed, as much as he could, trying not to focus on the purple glow of the shock runes flickering on the walls. He pulled his hood up over his eyes and listened to Fallon breathing, taking deep breaths. He tried the Psijic calming technique, hearing the blood and magicka pounding under his skin as he held his breath. He exhaled and felt the tension leaving his body until his chest rattled, and when he breathed in the tightness was gone.

  
The gem in his ring flickered but stayed a warm red hue. His eyes rested on it and a different pain crept into his chest. He was glad she was still alive, and apparently on the move, coming closer to them, then farther away. She was Shouting then, to cover more distance. Smart woman.

  
He exhaled and closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to worry about her, or them. They were all going to be fine...

 

* * *

 

Amuril woke slowly, mistaking the hiss and pop of the shock runes for a fire. His neck was stiff and his back sore but underneath the furs was warm, and Irowe was asleep beside him. Amuril exhaled, letting out a long yawn, and curled carefully around her. That was when his mind started noticing the little things that were wrong. Irowe’s hair was straight and lacked its usual thick curls. Her legs were shorter than his, despite her constantly flaunted extra inch, and more muscular.

  
And Irowe was miles away, in Alftand or maybe even Blackreach by now.

  
Amuril peeled back his hood and confirmed his suspicions. Fallon. He’d curled up next to Fallon. Amuril slowly placed his hand between them and scooted a few inches away. He didn’t mind - in fact it explained why he hadn’t been kicked in the middle of the night - but he suspected it would make Fallon uncomfortable. _He_ viewed the young mer as more than a friend - a son or nephew at the very least - but...

  
Amuril’s eyes started watering and he rubbed his nose. It had taken them so long to trust him, to even know what to do with him, and they had just left their only child with his aunts. It was only natural that, regardless of their intentions, their relationship with Fallon became something parental. It had taken Fallon even longer to trust them, to accept that when they gave him a bow they wanted to use it with their blessing, not punish him for daring to pick up a weapon they put in his hands. When they gave him coin and said it was his that they meant it, and they wanted him to spend it on things for himself not... coffee beans from Stros M’Kai or lambskin gloves for Irowe.

  
Fallon moaned and rolled toward him, resting his face on Amuril’s shoulder. His green eyes flicked half open, then looked up to him, suddenly sheepish. Amuril wrapped his arm around him and patted his shoulder. He had nothing to apologize for.

  
“I would say good morning, but I have no idea if it is morning or not.” Amuril murmured. He did check his watch with his left hand. 1:19. Nearly six hours of sleep. More than they usually got.

  
Fallon nodded, yawning into the back of his hand. “I can make coffee, if you heat the water.”

  
Amuril groaned, feeling the sleep sticking in the skin under his eyes. “That sounds wonderful...”

  
Fallon crawled out from under the furs, careful not to pull them off Amuril. Amuril sat up, keeping the furs around his shoulders. Fallon dug out their packs and pulled the coffee pot and Amuril’s cup out. He poured water from a skin into the cup, then handed the pot to Amuril. Amuril cast a low flame spell and held the pot over his hand, watching the water’s surface as condensation crept up its edges.

  
He accepted three years ago that Fallon might never be able - or even want to - reciprocate that relationship: to see them as parents or relatives. The best they could do for him was to care for him now, and to get him back to Valenwood, to his actual family, safe and sound. Amuril adjusted his grip on the pot and focused the flames more in the middle. The plan had been to use what money they had saved up to buy out the lease, but that might not be possible now. They would have to get to the Treasury and avoid anyone close to Irowe’s father - a feat to itself - and get some poor clerk to take the money and give them the right papers without attracting attention.

  
He hated the idea of simply stealing Fallon away - he wanted him to be free to live his life without looking over his shoulder every day. He also hated the idea of keeping Fallon with them, with Melucar, away from his family, even if that was safer.

  
But they might not have a choice.

  
Fallon came back with the ground beans and they smelled absolutely wonderful. He poured the coffee into the pot, letting it float on the surface while he tipped sugar crystals into the heating water a pinch at a time. Amuril watched the water and noticed a ring of bubbles forming on the surface and moved his hand away. The trick was to not boil it, and while it had been some time since he had assisted in making his coffee, he had done it daily in Hammerfell years ago.

  
Amuril took the cup and watched it, letting it froth and the froth rise and fall. Fallon set the waterskin beside him for when the coffee was done and began making what would be breakfast: some biscuits with jam and dried fish. When the froth fell the second time Amuril stopped casting and set the pot down, pouring water into his cup. He took the wooden plate Fallon offered and blessed it, and Fallon for making it. He heard the quietest snort as Fallon sat down with a plate of mostly fish.

  
Amuril chewed, waiting for the coffee to settle. “The Voice’s light was brightest through the cemetery. I think that is our quickest option to reach it and the Staff, and hopefully be out of this place in a few hours.”

  
“Amuril, there’s got to be some other way.” Fallon swallowed. “There will be dead Nords in there.”

  
“There are dead Nords out here. And trolls. And stars know what else.”

  
Amuril mopped the jam off his plate with the biscuit and offered Fallon the rest of his fish. Breakfast finished, he poured the coffee into his cup and sipped at the foam. It was not as sweet as he liked but he wasn’t going to complain. Fallon took the plate and his and washed them with a handful of water, packing them back into his kit and preparing to leave.

  
“The light was brightest through there. We’ve been following it this far. These ruins are old, and other paths to it could be blocked by now. It might _be_ the only path.” Amuril admitted. Fallon didn’t argue further.

  
Fallon offered him the now empty waterskin for his coffee and, as much as he disliked the thought of drinking coffee from a skin they did need to get moving.

  
Once they were packed and Amuril checked with both detection spells that the streets outside were clear, they cleared the barricades quietly and slipped outside. The skylights were dark - so it was one in the morning then - and they both breathed easier. Trolls were most active at dawn and dusk, so hopefully they would meet few of them.

  
Just inside the cemetery was a door with an S-shaped seal running down it and a fire burning below. It was odd enough it jogged their memory of the ice door, and they dealt with the fire spirit that emerged with little difficulty. Amuril pulled the door sealed behind them with Telekinesis. The fire would have kept any trolls away, and with it out they didn’t want them following. He kept flicking his hand up and casting Detect Dead, pointing out draugr for Fallon to shoot before they emerged from their resting places in the walls.

  
“A moment. Please, just give me a moment...” A welcoming raspy voice begged from a chamber ahead.

  
“We have to keep _moving!_ Three knows how many of those things are behind us...”

  
Amuril’s ears perked up. Savos. He had forgotten they technically weren’t alone in the ruins. The ghostly mer’s then young face crept back to a gate and peered out at Amuril and Fallon, then retreated back to the rest of the ghosts. They now numbered four, including Savos. Fallon tried the gate, then forced it open with his shoulder. They pushed it shut once they were on the other side.

  
Inside, Atmah began to panic. “Where’s Elvali? Where is she- she was right behind me, I swear!”

  
“She’s dead. Something grabbed her from behind. I couldn’t...” Hafnar stopped speaking before his voice could break completely.

  
“Why didn’t you say something! We could have saved her!”

  
“It broke her _neck!_ Gods, I didn’t want to say that! But I...” Hafnar collapsed on a bench and held his head in his hands. “It was back by the chasm. Gods, I... I killed it, I swear it’s dead. I’m sorry...”

  
The three standing College mages looked from their sobbing companion to each other. Fallon noticed the benches and sat down, putting his feet up. Amuril winced and sat on the bench beside him, resting his feet for a moment. They needed to keep moving, but the ghosts could offer some insight into what lay ahead, or anything they had missed behind them.

  
“We never should have come here.” The Argonian admitted. “This was a mistake.”

  
“This is all my fault...” Atmah sank to the bench opposite Hafnar. She rubbed her face and stood again, pacing. “We should head back. We can... we can take Elvali’s body with us-”

  
“We can’t go back!” Hafnar howled. “Have you forgotten that thing at the entrance?! Do you want to end up like Girduin?!”

  
“Hafnar! Stop shouting at her!” Savos yelled at the Nord. “We keep pushing forward and we’ll _make it_.”

  
The mages looked at each other. Amuril was starting to believe that Savos was the only one who lived to see the surface again. From the looks on their faces, the mages were thinking something similar.

  
Savos slammed his fist into his palm. “There _can’t_ be only one exit, that’s _insanity_. There has to be other ways out of here, we just have to find them. We _will_ make it out of here.”

  
Without the group’s consent, he stormed off deeper into the catacombs. Hafnar picked up something and followed after him.

  
Atmah helped the Argonian to her feet. “Savos is right. Come on, Takes-In-Light. We just have to keep moving...”

  
The ghosts followed after Savos, and Takes-In-Light looked over her shoulder, straight through Amuril. He didn’t know how she died, or when, but he knew from the look in her eyes that she would not be with the ghosts the next time they crossed paths. The others faded into the dust hanging in the air, and the catacombs fell silent.

  
“ _Come..._ ” The Voice said, drawing the word out into a laugh. “ _Face your end._ ”

  
Fallon helped Amuril lay down on the bench and they waited until his magicka returned to recast the armor spells and continue on.

  
The further they went into the catacombs, the more it became apparent something other than trolls was eating away at them. The flame-trapped door had been ward enough to keep them away, judging from the relatively good condition of the skeletons they encountered, but the bones were fragile. They crumbled into dust almost before Fallon hit them, and more than once Amuril cast a fireball to find the skeletons exploded into ashes without resistance.

  
Then they came across a ghostly hound, whose glowing bones were ten times sturdier than the former draugr it fought with, and Amuril began to understand. He had come across a book (by a former student of the College no less) about the draugr that studied their ‘daily lives’ as it were. All draugr were once people, indistinguishable from the living, but over time their bodies were leeched of life and magic by the liches they were entombed with.

  
The decay present in the catacombs was too advanced to be solely the work of the Staff. Amuril dreaded to think of how powerful this Voice must be to turn even draugr into specters, but he kept this to himself. He didn’t want to frighten Fallon, but he was beginning to entertain the thought of finding an ‘exit’ or skylight near the Staff and running to Alftand. He was starting to believe they _needed_ Irowe.

  
The Voice drained him once more but they came to the end - or rather the entrance - of the catacombs. They were greeted with a sprawling, once ornate mural carved into the wall, and below it the remains of men chained and left to die for some long-forgotten sin.

  
“Charming...” Fallon muttered.

  
Amuril’s ears perked up at the sound of voices. Savos.

  
They followed the mural down the right hall and passed other walls of the animalistic Gods of the Old Way. Amuril noted that while he had seen what he believed were depictions of Magnus in Saarthal, there were none here. Perhaps Labyrinthian was younger - or older - than Saarthal, or the worship of Magnus was regional to Winterhold, or due to the Eye’s burial in that city.

  
One thing Saarthal and Labyrinthian did have in common however, was a wall etched in the Dragon Tongue. Once they had cleared the hall and surrounding areas, Amuril walked up to it, clearing moss away from the grooves. He could almost hear... whispering, and it seemed to get louder as the ‘words’ were cleaned, though maybe it was the touch of his gloves that was stirring them. He bit his lip and dug out his journal and a charcoal stub. Irowe - or her dragons - seemed to be able to read these walls with ease, and perhaps she could glean a useful Shout out of it, or use the notes to pry a Word out of her dragons.

  
Fallon checked his arrows and bow, and fidgeted with the axes hooked on his arm, sighing with relief when Amuril put the journal away. Amuril crinkled his nose at the young Bosmer, but the echoing sound of wailing up the hall stopped him from saying anything.

  
At the end of the pillar-lined hall, in an antechamber, Atmah was bent over double rubbing at her face. As he had feared, the only other ghosts with her were Hafnar and Savos, neither of which were willing to comfort her as she cried.

  
“Why?!” Atmah sobbed. “We can sti- still go back! We can stay with her!”

  
“And die with her too?” Savos spat. “She refused to go on! We don’t have a choice!”

  
Hafnar shook his head, his lips curled up at Savos, and walked away. His steps slowed as he approached the only other door to the antechamber, on the left. “If she thinks she can take on those things, or make it past that monster at the entrance, then fine! There _has to_ be another exit. There has to-”

  
“Quiet.”

  
Hafnar put his hand up against what must have been the then-closed now opened door. Beyond lay what Amuril read was called a Hall of Stories, a long avenue in Nordic tombs carved with historical scenes and parables, and of which there was only one to each tomb. Atmah sniffled and quieted. Savos uncrossed his arms and joined Hafnar by the door’s threshold. Amuril cast a magelight and sent it floating down the hall. It bobbled and stuck to a wooden door the size of a town’s gate at the very end. There was nothing else in the hallway.

  
“There’s something in there. Can you feel it?”

  
“Oh gods...” Atmah moaned, holding her stomach.

  
It felt like standing at the rails of a boat circling a maelstrom. The ghosts, being only students of the arcane arts, couldn’t be blamed for not sensing it sooner. They no doubt had other distractions on their minds like not dying, and in the years past it may have been weaker. It was a lingering, constant drain to the Voice’s sharp, brutal ones, but standing this close to the source Amuril could pick it out easily.

  
The only pulls of magicka he had felt that were stronger was the Eye... and the black dragon in Helgen. Alduin.

  
“We can still go back...” Atmah suggested. “There’s still time, we can still go back...”

  
Hafnar fixed her with a cold stare. “If you think you can make it on your own, Atmah, you are welcome to try.” He turned that gaze to their third member. “Savos. Are you with me man? -Elf.”

  
“ _Really_ , Hafnar.” Savos chided him. Savos crossed his arms and looked the man in the eyes. “Yes: yes, I’m with you.”

  
“Atmah?”

  
She shook her head and chewed her nails, crying quietly.

  
“Atmah, if we clear the way, she can get out too.” Hafnar said, surprisingly gentle. “Or we could go get help and come back for her. But we _have_ to go through this door.”

  
“We can do this.” Savos encouraged her.

  
“We can, _if_ we stay together.” Hafnar added.

  
Atmah finally caved between them. “I’ll be right with you...”

  
She pulled out the faintest of soul gems and recharged the Staff of Magnus. Amuril lowered his gaze and mouthed a silent prayer. He prayed that the two other mages died quickly.

  
Amuril inhaled and rubbed his nose. Savos survived, that meant he had found an exit somewhere nearby. Amuril looked around for a skylight, even a small one. He didn’t see one, and couldn’t remember seeing one since the catacombs. He started to worry that this part of the ruins were built too sturdily, or too deep, to open to the surface.

  
The ghosts faded. Fallon crept beside him, not taking his gaze from the darkness in the hall and the magelight at the end.

  
“What’s down there?” His tone suggested he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

  
“The Voice. and I suspect the Staff.”

  
They backtracked, searching every room, every hall for even a chimney leading up toward the surface. There were none, but Savos still made it out alive somehow, so there was one nearby, he was sure of it. They came back to the antechamber and checked their gear, recast the bound armor, and walked into the darkness. In a safer setting, he would have loved to have studied the Stories in detail, but Amuril doubted he had the stomach to ever return here once they had the Staff.

  
He cast Detect Life and Detect Dead, but neither showed anything of note from behind the final door, so Fallon carefully pushed it open. Inside was a road that led from stairs just below them to a waterfall’s pool. Above the road, an elaborate exterior network of walkways and arches that bridged the paving stones at several points. Two beams of magicka from the left structure held up a ward on a tall dais on the right, encasing something inside it. He did not see the Voice or any lich, but he could feel it was in the hall.

  
Amuril frowned and followed Fallon down the stairs to the road, checking and rechecking the hall with his spells every ten strides. As they passed under a bridge he could make out two gossamer shapes projected the beams from ledges on the first and second levels. His stomach dropped.

  
Atmah and Hafnar.

  
His skin began to crawl as Amuril looked from them to the ward they were casting. Inside, encased in a bubble almost too small for its form, was a draugr. It was richly dressed in now-tattered robes that billowed as it floated off the ground. Scaled armor inched up its middle into a terrifying dragons-head pauldron. On its face, an enchanted moonstone death mask. In its hands... was the Staff of Magnus.

  
Its cold blue eyes were looking at him. The draugr’s jaw hung slack and it _laughed_.

  
Amuril winced as he felt his magicka draining again, not as totally as it had before, but still palpable. He looked up and noted with wide eyes that the ward flickered.

  
He gripped Fallon’s shoulder and looked around wildly for a skylight: there was one on the draugr’s side of the waterfall, on the far side of the hall. Amuril grabbed Fallon and cast Levitation and ran.

  
It had been draining him, the draugr, Atmah and Hafnar, the dragon even - to break through the ward. Amuril’s own magicka was giving the draugr the power it needed to free itself from whatever Savos and the others had done to seal it away. He had to get away from it - to stop feeding it. Savos had wanted to send a group of masters or battlemages to deal with it, but Amuril couldn’t think of a worse decision. The only reason it wasn’t walking free now was because there was only one of him and they had moved quickly.

  
A soft cry and a groan echoed from the ghosts’ side of the hall. Amuril hugged Fallon to his chest and kept running. They needed Irowe. If they were to have any chance of stopping it - of stopping Ancano - they _needed_ Irowe.


	29. Glorious One

> _"The skillful battlemage ensures that the enemy is already defeated before the battle begins. A close-fought battle is to be avoided; the fortunes of war may turn aside the most powerful sorcery, and courage may undo the best-laid plans."_
> 
> _\-- The Art of War Magic  
>  _

* * *

 

MANIACAL laughter echoed through the ancient temple, shaking dust from the ceiling. Fallon hugged Amuril tighter, hearing the old mer panting heavily in his ear.

  
“Amuril- Amuril-” Fallon gulped, catching sight of the draugr on a ledge behind them. His fingers dug into Amuril’s robes.

  
“An exit. There has to be an exit. Savos got out so where-”

  
The draugr laughed again and Amuril’s legs gave out. Fallon threw out his hands and rolled. Amuril just collapsed. Fallon got to his knees and hurried back to him. He had to get up. Fallon couldn’t kill that thing alone. He had to - to conjure an atronach or _something_. He couldn’t leave Fallon on his own.

  
“Amuril-”

  
“Find the exit.” Amuril gasped. “We have to get away from here before it escapes. We have to- to get Irowe-” He stiffened and didn’t move. He wasn’t breathing. Fallon’s heart skipped. He reached out a hand and shoved his shoulder. Amuril exhaled and drew in a ragged breath; Fallon’s nerves climbed back down from a complete panic to barely able to breathe.

  
“ **Hurry.** ”

  
Fallon scrambled to his feet and started running. He headed for the ledges and bridges away from the draugr, where the two lights were coming from. He really hoped he was right, and that whatever exit this Savos person took _wasn’t_ behind the laughing undead. He climbed up stairs so steep and worn they may as well have been a rockface, digging his fingers into the moss-covered stone for anything to grab onto.

  
“Please oh please don’t be anything up here...” He muttered. The last thing he wanted was to run into another of those Shouting draugr with Amuril in the state he was in.

  
The ‘stairs’ let out onto an ancient sluice and he stumbled down it. Fallon tried to keep a hand near one of his axes, in case something jumped out at him. There was another set of stairs further down and he climbed those too. He panted for breath at the top of them and looked around. The draugr was still laughing. Amuril was trying to crawl to the stairs. The shield around the draugr was still snapping in and out of sight, fading faster the longer he looked at it. Fallon glanced around. He didn’t see any holes in the ceiling or even a hole at the waterfall’s mouth big enough to crawl through. There were no other doors that he saw, besides the one they came in.

  
Fallon growled under his breath and continued climbing, reaching the top of the ledges at last. He ran past a platform jutting out over the bridges and the main avenue and stopped, retreating back to the platform. One of the ghosts was kneeling there, a dim magicka beam streaming from her hands to the draugr’s flickering ward.

  
“Hey. Hey! Where-”

  
“Leave this place...” The ghost rasped.

  
“I’m trying! Where is the exit?” Fallon snapped. The ghost was silent. Fallon slipped around the stone supports and knelt next to her. “Savos. Where did he go? Did you see him leave?”

  
“He ran.”

  
“ _Which **way?**_ ” Fallon yelled, shaking her shoulders.

  
He stopped, standing and climbing over her to get a better look at the wall behind her. There was a courtyard down below. A door. A wooden gate. The way out.

  
Fallon sprinted down the bridge, trying to get closer to the wall. There had to be a gate of some sort that he missed, a way from there to the main avenue. He pressed himself between pillars and kept running, passing the other ghost. Fallon grabbed a railing and leaned out, barely touching the ledge, and saw a gate.

  
On the third level.

  
“Oh Y’ffre, please, I can’t drag him up there by myself!” Fallon exclaimed, pulling at his hair.

  
“He will use your own magic against you.” The ghost warned.

  
“I don’t have any!” Fallon snapped.

  
He pounded his fists on his thighs and spun around, reaching back up to grab his head. He stopped. Ran his fingers through his hair.

  
“I don’t have any magicka.” Fallon whispered. “That’s a _good_ thing.”

  
For once, it was. The mages died and weren’t any hope at stopping the draugr because they were mages, and it was slowly eating their magicka away. Amuril was crawling on the floor because he had too much magicka and he was feeding the draugr faster than he could restore it. Fallon didn’t have any, or so little of it he couldn’t hope to cast.

  
But he did have his bow. He had axes. He had something other than spells, and he had to hope that they would work better on the draugr than everyone’s attempts to stop it.

  
Fallon hurried over to the ghost. He swallowed. Amuril wouldn’t be much help, but these ghosts seemed to be faring alright, despite pouring everything into that ward. If he had help, or at least already-dead people as distractions, he’d have a better chance. He worried that getting the ghosts to help mean the ward would fall, but it was failing anyway. He’d rather pick the time and be prepared for the draugr’s escape than to be surprised by it.

  
“Hey.” Fallon patted the ghost’s shoulder. “Help me. Help me kill that thing.”

  
The ghost stood and whirled around, towering over Fallon. Fallon stumbled back. “You _cannot!_ You can’t set that thing on Skyrim! _I won’t let you!_ ”

  
Fallon yelped and ducked behind a pillar as the Nord ghost shot a lightning bolt where his neck had been. Fallon dove for the other pillar and spun around it, kicking the ghost square in the chest. The ghost let out a startled yell and fell. Fallon clambered over to the far edge of the platform. The ghost hit a bridge far below and evaporated, melting into a glowing blue puddle. Fallon winced. So much for that idea...

  
His skin prickled as the other ghost below him wailed, standing up, trying to hold up the ward by herself. Her voice climbed in pitch and her arms started shaking.

  
In an instant, several things happened at once. The draugr thrust the staff through a hole in the ward’s bubble and aimed it at her. She shrieked and the beam snuffed out. Her legs melted, draining into the staff. The rest of her dissolved. The ward died.

  
Fallon blinked in horror, his mouth hanging open but refusing to breathe, and he crawled back away from the platform’s edge. The draugr straightened itself and clasped the staff in both hands, its blue eyes turning slowly toward the main avenue.

  
“ _Amuril! Run!_ ”

  
Fallon tore off his bow and pulled, an arrow already nocked, and sent it speeding into the draugr’s chest. The draugr grunted, its eyes rolling back toward Fallon. Fallon’s heart skipped a beat. His lips thinned and he shot another arrow. He had been slowly stocking up on them throughout the tomb - ugly black-fletched things with crude barbed arrowheads - but there were a lot of them. He might need every single one.

  
Amuril stumbled and gasped, clawing his way up the stairs. The draugr raised the staff-

  
An arrow embedded itself in its shoulder. The draugr snarled- another above the metal pauldrons, digging into its collarbone. The draugr growled something in its ancient tongue and turned, floating off its dais to a bridge leading to their side of the ledges. Fallon kept firing, trying to keep its attention on him, to keep it from hitting Amuril, or at least to slow it down. He wasn’t doing a very good job. The draugr was covered in arrows but not stopping. He wasn’t stopping it. What would it take to kill that thing?

  
Amuril was on the second level now, almost at the top of the stairs. Fallon reached down for another arrow and felt he only had three left. He nocked one and held it, the bow loose, waiting for the draugr to move. It started to laugh. Fallon shot the arrow through its throat. He nocked another. The draugr climbed the first stairs, dead feet tapping the stones in a steady beat. Amuril gasped and hurried, but he was easily winded and weak from the magicka drains, not to mention climbing things _always_ took him a little longer than Fallon or Irowe. He was old. Fallon pulled back the string and released, scoring another hole in the draugr’s exposed side. Maybe he was too old.

  
He took the last arrow out of his quiver and bit his lip. This was it. The draugr reached the top of the second flight of stairs - Amuril was on the bridge level with it - and Fallon shot his last arrow.

  
He missed.

  
Fallon blinked. He couldn’t have missed - he was aiming for its chest - but it had turned at just the right moment and now he had nothing but the axes. Fat lot of good _they_ would do him, a whole level above the draugr and Amuril.

  
The draugr paused and looked up at him, standing right below him, eyes glowing sky blue behind the silver mask. It began to laugh again. Amuril cried out and crumbled to the ground. He was lucky he didn’t fall off the edge.

  
“Amuril!” Fallon cried.

  
The draugr continued laughing, its voice booming and echoing against the bridges and walls of the hall. It raised the staff at Amuril-

  
Fallon ran off the ledge and leapt. He brought his arms down around the draugr’s neck, wrapping his legs around its hips and jerking hard. He was a light mer, but the fall gave him enough momentum to knock the draugr off its feet and over the edge.

  
They hit a bridge. Fallon was luckily on top at that point but for a wasted away centuries-old dead body, the draugr was surprisingly heavy. They rolled off that bridge and dropped straight to the ground of the main avenue far below, arrows snapping off the draugr’s body as they fell. Fallon pushed off the draugr at the last second, tumbling down the cobblestones and sliding to a stop several yards away from it.

  
“ _Fallon!_ ”

  
The draugr floated to its full height, toes hanging off the ground, and it glared down at him. Fallon swallowed. Amuril was near the exit. He could get out. He could get Irowe, and come back and get the Staff. Amuril would have to run, a lot, but it was the best chance Fallon could give him. He’d see just how much of the draugr’s time he could waste, just how much of a pain he could be, to give Amuril more time.

  
Maybe it had all been leading up to this point. Salada had failed to protect the last Dragonborn, Martin Septim. Maybe this was Y’ffre giving the Sylvanus family the chance to set things right.

  
Fallon pulled the axes free of his belt. He hoped Salada would be proud.

  
“Zopaar joor!” The draugr boomed, scattering palm-sized stones from the road. “Zahrahmiik ni ofan aaz wah fahdon-”

  
Fallon yelled and charged. The draugr wheeled back, a hedge of sparks bursting at its feet and trailing between it and Fallon. Fallon leapt over them, ignoring the seizing twinge in his muscles and forcing his legs to keep moving. He closed the short distance between them faster than the draugr could raise the staff. Fallon swung, digging into the exposed flesh of its side and ripping the axe’s blade out while swinging the other one.

  
His left axe caught its beard on the staff. Fallon exhaled sharply. He jerked the other axe out and hacked at the draugr’s right wrist. The axe scratched at its gauntlets but the second swing came down on bone. The draugr snarled and let go of the staff with its barely attached right hand. Fallon pulled with his left.

  
The staff dropped to the ground beside Fallon. He spun and kicked it away, skittering away down the avenue, and buried both axes in the draugr’s thigh. Fallon yanked the axes out and the draugr raised its other hand - its good hand - and cast a frost spell in Fallon’s face. Fallon cried out and swung with his left and buried his face in his right elbow, trying to wipe the ice off so he could see-

  
A hand clenched around his left arm, the thumb pressing against the nerves and muscles in his forearm until he lost his hold on the axe. Fallon cried out and swung with his right, trying to hit the draugr’s arm-

  
He was hoisted in the air, feet kicking and trying to find purchase on the draugr’s thighs or hips. The arrows he’d embedded in its body didn’t protrude enough to hold his weight. The draugr’s ragged robes were too smooth and slippery for his boots to catch on. Fallon’s breathe caught in his throat the draugr locked gazes with him, searing blue staring into green.

  
“Bolog aaz, _mal lir!_ ”

  
It squeezed its hand. Fallon’s fingers spread wide and his whole body tensed as the bones in his arm were crushed together. It felt like it was trying to cut his arm off with just its fingers, and as the bones cracked he worried that it had the strength to do so. That was the only real clear thought he had. Everything else was pain and his vision bloomed white. He didn’t even know if he was screaming or not.

  
The draugr grunted and spin, swiveling its head to the ledges above, Fallon swaying in its grip. Fallon caught a quick flurry of movement and the blur of something flying up above them into a glowing orange hand. Amuril’s hand. Amuril had the staff.

  
The draugr began cursing in its guttural tongue, every word meant for the elderly Altmer mage.

  
“Amuril, _run!_ ” Fallon screamed.

  
A faint blue-green light ignited into a searing white beam directly into its chest. The draugr staggered but set its feet on the ground.  
Its grip tightened on Fallon’s arm. Pain.

  
“ _Fus..._ ”

  
Fallon stared up at its mask. No. It couldn’t-

  
“ _Ro Dah!_ ”

  
The Shout blasted up the ledges and slammed into the ceiling. Amuril was nowhere to be seen. Fallon glanced back from the draugr to the ledge where he had just been, his heart in his mouth. No. No-

  
Amuril rolled back into sight, aiming and firing the staff down at the draugr again. It lurched forward and its chest rumbled. Divines no.

  
“ _Fus..._ ”

  
Fallon glanced down for his axes and saw a dagger on the draugr’s girdle. He grabbed it and buried it into its throat. It still Shouted, but down the avenue, missing Amuril. The draugr turned its attention to Fallon, tightening its grip on his arm and raising its other arm with a frost spell in its hand. Fallon stabbed it again, slashing at dead skin and stiff muscle.

  
The knife’s handle caught on the draugr’s mask when he jerked it out. The draugr wheeled backwards, the spell forgotten, and clawed at its mask, but the motion only made it slip further off its face. Fallon tugged the knife free of its neck and the mask tumbled off the draugr’s head, uncovering a snarling grey face with blue eyes beneath, the light from the staff making it look even more sinister.

  
The draugr’s fingers shot open as its body stiffened, its jaw hanging slack. Fallon dropped to the ground and screamed as his elbow hit the stones. Vibrations rattled up his arm and he could feel his last meal coming up again.

  
Something clattered to the ground in front of him. It was not the draugr’s mask, but its girdle. Then the pauldron. Finally, a golden and ruby circlet. The staff’s light faded and stopped.

  
Fallon turned his head and vomited, clutching his crushed arm to his stomach and hunching his back. He looked up when he inhaled. He didn’t see the draugr, only fluttering fragments of a purple robe, and ashes. Was it... He hung his head again and rocked forward, starting to cry between heaving. Divines, he couldn’t _think_.

  
Footsteps and the shaking of potion bottles grew louder. A hand on his shoulder made him inhale. The hand was warm. Not the draugr.

  
“Stars, Fallon, you idiot, don’t die on me.”

  
Amuril tore open the bag of potions and rifled through it, yelling and hissing as he cut himself on broken glass. Fallon looked up, head pounding almost as much as his arm. He didn’t remember losing the potion bag, but it must have come off when he fell. He sobbed at the thought that all the potions were broken and there was nothing to be done. He wanted to die.

  
Amuril pulled a red phial out and brushed broken shards off its dripping bottom. He rolled Fallon over and wiped his mouth - Fallon instinctively pulled away: he still had bile on his face - Amuril gripped his jaw firmly and pressed the phial’s mouth to his, tilting it up so it poured down his throat. Fallon choked and coughed most of it back up. Amuril pressed the phial to his lips again, but at a lower angle.

  
“Fallon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry- I’m so...” His eyes watered and he shook his head.

  
Fallon tried breathing through his nose. His arm hurt _so **bad**_...

  
Amuril helped him drink the rest of the potion, barely giving him time to breathe through his mouth before tipping another, slightly smaller one into his mouth. Fallon started crying again, kicking his feet against the ground as the pain ramped up. It wasn’t numbing it. It wasn’t even taking the edge off. His arm still _hurt_.

  
The second bottle drained down his throat and Amuril set it down, looking through the pack for another unbroken potion and finding none. He slid Fallon up and himself over, holding Fallon to his chest. Amuril cast a healing spell over Fallon’s broken arm and it illuminated the darkness. He wasn’t a skilled healer like Irowe, and Fallon wasn’t even sure Irowe could heal broken bones, not if they were shattered like his certainly were.

  
“Damn it, Irowe! I need you!” Amuril hissed.

  
They sat there: Amuril breathing heavily and holding him, wiping Fallon’s mouth with his sleeve; Fallon crying with his eyes closed, trying to find some position where his arm didn’t hurt quite as much. Amuril patted his chest and continued trying the healing spell, at a loss for what else to do.

  
Fallon hiccupped and opened his eyes. Amuril was crying. He wished he could say he was feeling better, but all the potions were doing were deadening the pain. Potions only spurred on the body’s natural healing- they couldn’t fix broken bones or bleeding. Potions couldn’t put him back together: all they could do was give him a little more time and hopefully less pain.

  
He started to cry harder. He didn’t want to die.

  
Amuril rested his head on Fallon’s shoulder and stroked his hair, holding him to his chest. The pain was going away, but only if he didn’t move. He... Amuril had too much he still had to do, and he just knew that the old mer couldn’t handle watching him die: he didn’t need that right now. Fallon didn’t think _he_ could handle knowing he did that to Amuril.

  
He had to find some excuse to get away, to pass quietly somewhere where Amuril wouldn’t know until afterwards, when he had Irowe to help him, maybe Melucar too. But first he had to convince Amuril to leave. He didn’t want to die in this tomb.

  
“I think...” Fallon’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat; it didn’t help. “I think I’m going... to be alright...”

  
Amuril exhaled slowly out his nose, looking down at the awkward mess that was Fallon’s arm, only still together by skin and his gauntlet. Fallon tried to force a smile; Amuril sadly returned it.

  
“I hope so, Fallon. I hope so...”

  
Amuril helped him sit up, casting with a spell for the staff that had rolled away. The draugr’s mask scraped closer to them as well, and Amuril glared down at it with such rage Fallon thought he would make it burst into flames. The potions were noticeably affecting him now, and he almost felt giddy from the _lack_ of pain.

  
Amuril snatched up the mask and coiled his arm to throw it across the hall. He stopped. Frowned. Slowly lowered it and held it down where he could look at it, rubbing a thumb over the moonstone. Fallon hiccupped. Amuril shook his head and tucked the mask into one of their packs.

  
Fallon glanced listlessly at the staff now in Amuril’s hand. It was elaborate but simply designed, a gold and cream colored staff with the blue-green-white glow of a long crystal in the bottom. It bore light interlocking designs that... almost looked Altmeri - or older - on the shaft. On its head, golden petals curled around a gleaming ball of magicka unfurling and curling up again as it ‘breathed’.

  
Amuril knelt, doing his best not to move Fallon too much, and cast a bright yellow spell on himself. He tucked his arms under Fallon and lifted him up like he weighed nothing.

  
Fallon chuckled and rested his head against Amuril’s shoulder. “You must be feeling better...”

  
Amuril snorted and smiled. “I’m afraid it’s just a spell.”

  
He cast another spell and they climbed into the air, finally leaving the city-sized crypt. Fallon sighed and closed his eyes, focusing on the sway of Amuril walking and the soothing sensation of being off the ground. He remembered autumn evenings with Atheas back in the beech-maple forests of Auridon, climbing up into the top boughs of the trees and trying to remember Valenwood. How it felt to be in a forest, up in the trees, with the wind swaying the spindly trunks and the leaves whispering...

  
He started to fall asleep when they passed under the gate. Fallon tucked his brow into the crook of Amuril’s neck and fought a yawn. Atheas. He was never going to see Atheas again. His chest ached at the thought. The older Bosmer was the only real tie he had to his family, and he doubted the Malciors would risk seeking him out just to tell him what happened to Fallon...

  
Fallon sniffled. He was never going to see Erigoth again either, or Ama, or Ata, or Valenwood...

  
Amuril stopped walking and stiffened, his fingers digging into Fallon’s thigh and ribs. Fallon gasped in discomfort and looked up. Amuril’s face was frozen but his mouth and eye twitched. Now that Fallon listened, he could hear the crackle of shock magic... and the flicker of purple light on Amuril’s nape.

  
“Going somewhere?”

  
Fallon ducked further down Amuril’s chest. There was another Altmer with them in the antechamber past the draugr’s hall. A purple hood. Another Thalmor. Someone working for the Advisor perhaps? Fallon tried to judge how far away they were standing, with their hand wrapped around Amuril’s neck. Too far away to try and stab, even if he could reach over and behind Amuril without passing out.

  
“You can’t let him do this. He’s killing people.” Amuril said through grit teeth.

  
“Oh dear, that’s bad isn’t it?” The mer tsked.

  
“Estormo-”

  
“You should have run along to the embassy like you were told, old mer. All you had to do was deliver a simple letter, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  
The antechamber was quiet. The strap holding the Staff of Magnus to Amuril’s back slackened and slipped off and under his shoulder. Fallon swallowed. He could still see the purple sparks of shock magic arcing across Amuril’s neck.

  
“It was for me.” Amuril said quietly.

  
Estormo chuckled and clucked his tongue. “Well, no matter.” He leaned in to Amuril’s ear, close enough that Fallon could see his face. “This time, Ancano _requested_ I kill you.”

  
The other Altmer’s gaze flicked down to Fallon. He couldn’t let him kill Amuril, but even if his arm wasn’t ruined, Fallon couldn’t have done anything. Not with a spell already pressed against Amuril’s neck.

  
“Nothing personal.” Estormo murmured.

  
A blue glow grew over the walls of the antechamber. Estormo’s face twisted and he rasped, his hand drawing back from Amuril. Amuril tucked Fallon to his chest with one arm - Fallon tried to keep his arm from being pressed between their chests - and spun to cast a shock spell of his own-

  
He stopped and the spell fizzled out. Fallon’s eyes fell first on a glowing blue figure in mages robes, then on the prone and gasping figure of Estormo at the ghost’s feet. There was a summoned purple sword sticking out of Estormo’s chest. Estormo collapsed and laid still, eyes staring wide up at the ceiling and his brows raised in confusion.

  
“Savos?” Amuril asked in surprise.

  
The ghost turned to them, the same short-bearded Dunmer they had been following off and on throughout the ruin. His eyes no longer had the same determined light to them; they looked like he’d had his life’s essence drained out of them.

  
Savos picked up the staff and replaced it on Amuril’s shoulder. “ _Go._ The College needs you. Mirabelle...” He swallowed. Fallon struggled to remember who that was, if he’d ever been told. “Mirabelle’s gone.” Savos finally choked out. “Ancano’s taken over the entire College. You have to stop him.”

  
Amuril adjusted his grip on Fallon, but he looked like he wanted to give the dejected mer a hug. “Tolfdir?”

  
“I think he’s still alive. I haven’t felt him cross over, at least.”

  
Amuril nodded. He glanced down at Fallon, his resolve faltering. He wanted to tell Amuril that it was alright, that he didn’t have to worry about him because he wasn’t going to get better. He knew that would only make him feel worse however, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  
“Thank you.”

  
Savos scoffed and tugged at his beard. “You did what I couldn’t. What I _wouldn’t_. I should be thanking you.” He shook his head, his gaze slowly finding their way from the floor back to Amuril’s eyes. “Thanks to you, I can be at peace instead of reliving my greatest shame for the rest of eternity.”

  
Amuril nodded and took a step back. A step to leave. “Be at peace then. I will see to the College.”

  
Savos shuddered, like he was standing in the highest boughs of a maple and a lumberjack was cutting at the trunk’s base. He started to fade and Amuril turned and walked away. Fallon glanced over his shoulder. That was the first time he’d seen the Dunmer look... happy.

  
They came to a ladder, with a pack and gear at its base. Amuril picked them up and Fallon held out his feet, letting him hook its straps around his legs so it hung off his knees. Amuril recast the Levitation spell and they ascended. The view, the open air, the drizzling sky, was glorious. Cold, entirely too bright despite the obvious night, but glorious.

  
Thunder rolled. Fallon’s head thumped back against Amuril shoulder and he closed his eyes. Amuril stopped walking. Fallon’s ears twitched. He could hear... was that a horse...?

  
“ _Yes_. Yes, oh- this will do...” Amuril murmured.

  
He climbed down, all the way to the actual ground, not a ledge or a balcony but sun-kissed snow-covered dirt, where a bay dun pawed at the bark of a tree. Fallon hemmed and watched it toss its head. It was a pretty thing, and it still had its tack on, which was rude of Estormo. Well, he wouldn’t be using it anymore.

  
He could convince Amuril to take the horse, that he would follow with the others at the mining settlement (if he could even make it that far) and... just find someplace quiet, or try to make it to Morthal. He sort of hoped someone would bury him, eventually, but he’d rather be in the woods, or what passed as ‘woods’ in Morthal.

  
Amuril lifted up and placed Fallon gently in the saddle. Fallon grunted in surprise but dragged his leg across the horn. Amuril tied the packs onto the horse’s tack and pulled out a grey cloak. He stepped up in the air, draping it over Fallon’s shoulder and around his bad arm, making a crude but warm sling to hold it in. He then placed a smaller satchel - his potion bag - around Fallon’s neck and good arm so it hung at his right waist.

  
“Amuril, no. You need those-”

  
“You need them more.”

  
Amuril took a green vial out of his pocket and held it to Fallon’s lips. He drank it, feeling the familiar chest-clearing burn of a stamina potion eating away at the haze from the health potions. He rubbed his eyes. Okay, so... he had a horse now. He could make it a little farther, if he didn’t fall off. The sling helped, a little. Fallon bit his lip. He hoped Amuril didn’t expect him to go back up to Winterhold with him: he’d never make it past the first mountain pass.

  
Amuril threaded something onto a chain and put it around Fallon’s neck. Fallon frowned and held the chain up, his frown deepening as he saw what dangled off it.

  
“Amuril, _no_. Your ring-”

  
“If it’s not on my finger, Irowe will think something happened to me.” Amuril said quietly. The clipped tone suggested he thought it would serve her right. “She will come to find the ring, and she’ll be able to help you, or she’ll know someone who can. I’ll go on to the College.”

  
Fallon blinked. His eyes stung and his mouth ached. He didn’t want to hope again, not if he was just going to die anyways. He’d never forgive Amuril for being that cruel. And yet... and yet Irowe was a very good healer. Maybe she couldn’t fix the broken bones, but she could stop the bleeding: she’d done it before. Fallon exhaled shakily. If... if he could find her...

  
“So... what, just... ride around until she finds me?”

  
“-No.” Amuril said a little too quickly. Amuril cleared his throat. “No. There’s a pass here, toward Whiterun; take the south road to Markarth.” He pointed further up the mountains - up several flights of stairs - then patted the satchel hanging by Fallon’s waist. “Use the potions as often as you need to.”

  
Amuril pulled out his journal and a charcoal stub, making a crude map. “Just before Markarth there’s an island in the middle of the Karth River. Go to it. There are friends there who can help you. An old Breton woman and an elderly Nord.”

  
Fallon stared down at the ripped journal page of a map he was offered. He wasn’t really awake enough to understand what was going on. He squinted at the lines, holding the paper up so the lone arrow in the corner faced ‘north’. He could read it, and that was all he had to do. Just follow the dotted line Amuril drew, until he found these friends of theirs, and Irowe.

  
“Okay... Okay.” Fallon murmured. He tucked the map into his cuirass so he wouldn’t lose it in one of the five saddlebags.

  
“When I’m done at the College I will bring Melucar there.” Amuril said, patting Fallon’s knee.

  
“Okay.”

  
Amuril nodded, squeezing his leg before pulling away. “I will see you in a few days. Keep the ring safe.”

  
“Okay.” Fallon said. It felt like the only thing he _could_ say.

  
Amuril held the reins and led the horse toward a steep but rideable path toward the pass. Fallon sniffed and looked up and around, feeling lightheaded. He didn’t think there were trolls nearby...

  
Amuril rapped the horse’s thigh and it nickered, breaking into a trot and high-stepping through the snow. Fallon looked over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Amuril. He sighed and wrapped the reins around his good wrist. Amuril was leaving, and that was really all he needed. If he died, at least it wouldn’t be where Amuril would see, or even know about it until after he’d gotten Melucar. Fallon did his best to smother the flutter of hope in his chest. But... there was a chance he’d find Irowe first.

 


	30. Close Shut the Eye of Magnus

> _The lives of all living are touched by Magnus, He Who Abstained. Lord Magnus drew up the schematics of our world, intricately sketching the diagrams of Creation. Magnus is with us always, in the magic of Mages and the warming breath of the sun._

* * *

 

WAYWARD PASS lay in darkness as the storm lapped at the peaks of the Winterhold Mountains. The glacial wastes glowed white-blue with reflected light from lightning - or more likely, those magical orbs. Amuril pulled his horse to a stop at the crest of the pass and stared out over the ice, trying to see where Saarthal was. He had to get the staff to Tolfdir, then ride for the Throat as fast as the horse could carry him. Irowe wasn’t near the Winterholds any longer - he passed over her at some point near the Pale’s border with Whiterun Hold - and he was starting to dread that she already found the Elder Scroll.

  
Amuril tapped the Staff of Magnus against his boots, glancing up at the clouds. He wasn’t sure the staff would work if the storm was natural. He wasn’t sure if it could work on the storm at all.

  
He lifted the Staff of Magnus and aimed it at the sky. He activated the staff and it jerked back, the petals snapping open and the orb inside spinning and gleaming. He covered his eyes with his other arm and held it over his head, aiming it toward the clouds. Amuril squinted. There was a faint stream of light spiraling into the staff’s orb, but... it didn’t look like it was working...

  
A star twinkled through the darkness. Three more revealed themselves as the dark cloud peeled back. He grinned and urged the horse down the pass, holding the staff out and watching the lights around it grow brighter. Now in the wastes, there was a thick fog over the glaciers, but the staff was dispelling that too. Amuril followed a faint trail, praying it was the one he and Fallon took before, and continued riding.

  
The snow flew past underneath the mare’s feet. Keeping to the trail was difficult; in places it faded under the drifts and in others it was barely trodden at all. They met nothing in the wastes, not even the orbs, which concerned him. There should have been a frost troll at least, or malnourished wolves, but the wastes were empty. Perhaps Ancano had... A chill crept down his spine and he urged the horse to go faster.

  
The longer he rode above the glaciers, the more unnerved he became, until Amuril couldn’t take it any longer. He diverted the horse west, toward Saarthal. Savos had said that Mirabelle was gone, but Tolfdir was alive - when he left Labyrinthian. There were hundreds, thousands of students and mages in Saarthal, and for his sanity he needed to see that at least _some_ of them were still alive.

  
Familiar stone columns rose out of the glacial valley as the fog and mist whipped away into the staff. The horse pawed at the ground at the top of the ramps. Amuril swallowed. He didn’t see anyone.

  
He urged the horse down the ramps and raced for the black gate, pushing past the dread of entering another Nordic ruin so soon after Labyrinthian. They couldn’t be dead. Not again.

  
Screams and the sound of destruction spells casting chilled his heart and warmed it. Amuril dropped the reins and reached out with Telekinesis, prying the doors open as the horse approached. Once inside he used the spell to close the gates behind him and raised the staff aloft. The staff’s orb burned and cast rays out into the air, aiming first for the orbs snaking overhead but a few rays landed on mages. Amuril scowled and held the staff up higher, trying to aim it better. He wanted to _save_ the mages, not kill them from magicka withdrawals.

  
The orbs wheeled as one, threading through the small crowd and racing over hoods. Stray spells burst in pockets and out into the air as the mages tried to take them out, but he couldn’t see how successful they were.

  
Amuril dismounted and waited. He didn’t dare try using the staff again when they were intermixed with the mages. The frontrunning orbs hissed out from between the grey robes. Amuril flicked the staff, powering it and letting it lie dormant as the orbs melted and screamed, evaporating into the glowing ball of light at the staff’s head.

  
The cast spells moved forward in a wave, until the mages were aiming ahead of them, to the middle ground between them and Amuril. Amuril unleashed the staff, letting it soak in all the orbs in one blast before pulling it back. A few students in the front stumbled but their fellows helped them up. Amuril glanced up at the ceiling and the empty buildings and corridors before crossing the distance.

  
A Dunmer Expert of Conjuration squirmed her way out of the pressing bodies and hurried out to meet him. “You’re Master Malcior? Is that the staff?”

  
“Yes and yes. Where is Tolfdir?”

  
“At the College. It’s...” Her face fell and she struggled for words.

  
Amuril laid a hand on her shoulder. “I know. Savos told me it wasn’t going well.”

  
She frowned. “He did?”

  
Amuril winced. He now realized how odd that sounded, given that most of the students were aware the Arch-Mage had died at the start of the crisis. However, he didn’t have time to give this woman a detailed explanation of what happened in the Stonehills. He didn’t even know what she knew already, or if she was even in charge or just asked to look out for an Altmer master with a staff.

  
“I spoke with his ghost before leaving Labyrinthian. It’s a long story and I’m glad it’s almost over. Tolfdir is at the College?”

  
She nodded and skipped back. “We have a beacon, in the Eye’s chambers. It should be faster than your horse. Come with me.”

  
Amuril secured the staff to his back and hurried after her. “Thank you. That will be very helpful. Aah...” Amuril sighed. He'd still need the horse when he left to find Irowe, but he supposed it could have an hour or two's rest while he was at the College. “Keep the horse here. I suspect I’ll be back for it.”

  
“Oh. Of course, sir.”

  
Aside from the initial climb up ramps to reach the third level and the ebony door, the trek was blessedly downhill. Amuril was still winded when they passed under the Eye’s grotesque, the runes of which shone brighter as he approached with the staff. He could have sworn the white lines and eyes of the two murals were glowing as well, but now was not the time to study them.

  
The Conjuration Expert shooed a gathering of students away from the dais, searching the floor for the beacon’s mark. The Altmer Master of Destruction - Faralda was the name that came to mind - took the Expert’s wrist and demanded her attention.

  
“Nalensa, was Phinis with you?”

  
Nalensa blinked, then frowned. “No. I thought he was down here.”

  
“I don’t remember him leaving.” Faralda said, frowning herself.

  
“I’m sure he’s around.”

  
“I’ll look for him, alright? Master Malcior, the beacon is here.” She called out, pointing to a hexagonal tile.

  
“Thank you.”

  
Amuril straightened his robes and walked over, trying to remember the exact motions for the recall spell. It had been some time since he used one, and if he _had to_ travel by magic he usually used scrolls. It was easier that way, less magicka, less chance of forgetting something critical halfway through and bungling the whole thing or worse.

  
The dark and grey of Saarthal’s depths faded, dripping away like water on glass panes until the main streets of Winterhold blurred into view. Amuril blinked and shook his head, walking blindly forward for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the light. He unstrapped the staff from his back and pointed it to the sky, unleashing its full power. He could hear from the thunder and the hiss of magicka that the storm was worse here, and there were orbs nearby, but he wasn’t able to see them quite yet.

  
The hiss of magicka faded, and in its place were approaching footsteps.

  
“Tolfdir!”

  
Amuril blinked and rubbed his eyes. He’d barely pulled his hand down when he was caught in a tight bear hug.

  
“Excellent! Oh, I _knew_ you could do it!” Tolfdir cried. He laughed and patted Amuril on the back, setting him back down. Amuril cleared his throat and smiled, smoothing his robes. Tolfdir’s face fell. “You came alone?”

  
“Fallon was injured, and Irowe is having a crisis of her own.” Amuril explained, holding out the staff.

  
Tolfdir took it. He looked up at Amuril and raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t make a habit of doing this.”

  
“That seems to be all I do of late-”

  
“If you two are done?!” Master Turrianus snapped.

  
Amuril looked around: the other mages were now gathered around - mainly the school masters, but a Bosmer Expert was with them. Behind them, surrounding the College and the sea just off the cliffs, was a massing storm wall, only pushed back by the staff’s earlier torrent. A few of the mages looked around, checking that there were no orbs nearby, but the staff held their attention. Tolfdir pulled out a Greater soul gem and let it melt into the staff. When it finished, he took it reverently in his hands.

  
Amuril nodded. Tolfdir had the staff. Everyone was going to be fine. Now was as good a time as any to depart-

  
“We could use your help.”

  
Amuril fought the urge to scream and complain that no, they were masters and experts and they certainly didn’t need his help. He exhaled out his nose and ran a hand through his hair. Would he really be able to live with himself though, if something went wrong? If Ancano, somehow, wasn’t stopped? That would haunt him for the rest of his life, as Rhuusa Gau did.

  
“I suppose another hour won’t make a difference...” Amuril sighed.

  
Tolfdir grinned and squeezed his shoulder, then looked around at the other masters, his face falling somber. “Stay close to me!”

  
They cast the best bound armor spells they knew as Tolfdir adjusted his grip on the staff’s shaft, aiming it at the storm wall. The magicka dissipated like smoke before a gale, whipping in the air and channeling into the staff with a fury that rivaled the sun. The storm parted before them and they hurried across the bridge. Tolfdir slowed and laid down an ice bridge where the stones had given out. They ran through the College’s gates under Magnus’ watchful gaze and into the courtyard.

  
The courtyard where the rest of the anomalies had gathered, a last defense against their progress.

  
“We’ll deal with these anomalies. Get inside and deal with that bastard.” Master Turrianus said, rolling up his sleeves.

  
Tolfdir grabbed his arm. “ _No!_ Stay together! We can handle them later!”

  
Tolfdir kept the staff going, and thankfully it fed off any orbs foolish enough to advance instead of the cluster of masters and experts. They reached the main doors and the Restoration Master - Colette - opened them cautiously, keeping a ward in front of them at all times. The staff sapped the swirling wall of magicka away and they advanced, shutting and barring the door behind them.

  
Inside the main lecture hall, the Eye’s panes floated loosely outside the core of magicka, casting blue-green shadows on the windows and their faces. Staring up at the magicka core, hair billowing in the breeze, was Ancano.

  
“Ancano! It’s over.” Tolfdir called out.

  
Ancano slowly turned around, his eyes wide and gaze unfocused. He finally settled on the group of mages facing him.

  
“Is that so?” He frowned, and directed his attention to Amuril specifically. “Are you with them now, Master Malcior?”

  
Amuril froze. He had... honestly forgotten, what with the lack of sleep, near death encounters and the high stakes of the past few days that... he was officially still a member of the Thalmor. It seemed months ago he’d had the conversation with Irowe in the courtyard outside about leaving for good, he’d forgotten they were the only ones that knew that.

  
He’d forgotten that Mirabelle and Savos were the only two who knew his involvement, and they were both conveniently dead.

  
“-Release the Eye now.” Tolfdir warned, demanding Ancano’s attention.

  
The others readied shock spells or summons, and Colette held the ward fast. Now Ancano scowled.

  
“Or you’ll _what?_ Kill me? The power to unmake the world at my _fingertips_ , and you think you can _touch_ me? _You think I’m afraid of any of you?!_ ”

  
He raised his arms and the Eye pulsed. The light was blinding and it washed over the ward and their bodies, gripping them and turning their limbs stiff. Amuril fought the paralysis but found himself crumpling to the floor with the rest of the mages, save Tolfdir. Tolfdir whirled backwards, conjuring a storm atronach and refreshing his armor. Ancano stepped back and planted his feet, his hands flowing into a readied stance.

  
Tolfdir cast a ward and charged. Ancano zapped the ward away with a thunderbolt but Tolfdir made a new one, slamming it into Ancano and knocking him away from the Eye. Amuril tried to crane his neck back so he could see, but he was on his back and his already tired mind had trouble reconciling everything upside down. When Tolfdir’s ward failed again he responded with a thunderbolt of his own and turned the staff on Ancano.

  
Ancano laughed.

  
The staff was drawing magicka from Ancano, but the stream of light pouring from his body to the staff was the only sign it was doing so. Tolfdir frowned and stopped, trying it again: the same result.

  
“You cannot hope to defeat me!”

  
Tolfdir yelled and cast another thunderbolt, running forward and throwing Ancano off balance with his ward again. It was still clear the spells and staff were having no effect. Amuril began to panic. What was the point of having the staff - of everyone dying or suffering injuries - of Fallon probably losing his _arm_ \- if the staff didn’t bloody _work?_

  
Amuril’s eyes widened. As the two combatants danced and wove in and out of each other’s spells, he saw faint tendrils of light meandering toward them. Toward Ancano, from the Eye.

  
The Staff of Magnus was reported to be the only thing able to contain his power, but the Eye’s magicka combined with an Altmer master mage appeared to be beyond its abilities.

  
“Tolfdir! Use the staff on the Eye!”

  
Ancano whipped his head around toward Amuril and snarled, casting a lightning bolt at him. The storm atronach conjured earlier dove and took the bolt, exploding. Rock shards and charged pebbles peppered the fallen mages, but they were otherwise unharmed. Tolfdir pointed the staff at the Eye and unleashed its full power, holding a ward up against Ancano’s attacks. The panes slid over each other at an agonizing pace, but the room grew dark as they clicked together, sealing the magicka core away.

  
“ _No!_ ” Ancano cried, focusing his attacks on Tolfdir and trying to get a thunderbolt through his wards.

  
Amuril groaned and panted, raising a trembling hand to his shoulder where a large rock had struck him. Stars, that hurt. It was even worse that he couldn’t block it - couldn’t even flinch away from it - because that damn paralyzing light made it impossible to move-

  
Amuril stopped. Stared at his hand. He could move his hand. He glanced around: none of the other masters showed any sign they could also move. Amuril frowned. He trailed his hand down, to sit up, but slowed, his hand reaching instead for a strong source of magic in his pack. The mask. Suddenly he was _very_ grateful he’d kept it. He inched his hand up and placed it on his face, feeling a small but steady flow of magicka flowing through his veins again. It was enough to fight the paralysis and he got to his knees, crawling toward the Eye and Ancano and Tolfdir on its far side.

  
Amuril shakily climbed to his feet and stumbled forward, focusing on not throwing up and putting one foot in front of the other. The shortest distance was through the Eye, but he didn’t trust that. It was all he could do to keep standing, to keep walking, and that was with the mask’s enchantment. He wasn’t any use to Tolfdir now.

  
As he approached the Eye, the warm, almost soothing waves of magicka washed over him as they had when he first encountered it. He began to hear the whispers again, calling his name, but louder. The fight between Ancano and Tolfdir sounded so far away, but he focused on it, keeping his eyes locked on Tolfdir and the staff. Now was not the time to be distracted. The panes unlocked and began to breathe again, rising and falling, exposing the magicka core underneath them.

  
“I will free all the Aubris from the disease that is Man! Starting with you!” Ancano cried, his voice sounding so far away. “All Aldmer will return to the Beauty before Dawn. _You_ will not interfere!”

  
Amuril’s legs gave out as he reached the well underneath the Eye and he held onto its stones, using them to pull himself forward and onto his feet again. Stars, it was so hard to...

  
A thunderbolt cracked throughout the hall, but that wasn’t unnerving. The unnerving part was the silence afterward, and the quiet thump and rustle of a robed body falling to the floor.

  
It was Tolfdir.

  
Amuril froze in horror, his mind screaming that this wasn’t happening - that it _couldn’t_ happen. Ancano shoved Tolfdir over with his boot and bent down, fighting with him for the Staff and Magnus.

  
He hadn’t done anything to make the situation better, if anything, he’d only made things worse. He’d just gotten everyone killed. Again. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He never wanted anyone to get hurt. Stars, he just wanted to run, to run away.

  
The sounds of the Hall of the Elements faded, drowned out by the whispering of magicka and... actual whispers.

  
“ _Amuril..._ ” The whispers grew, chanting his name, soft then slow then loud and soft again. “ _Amuril..._ ”

  
He turned, looking to the Eye. The magicka core bathed him in warm, unfeeling light, the Eye’s panes spinning slow, pulled back from the core. It beckoned him, tendrils of light weaving around him, and it whispered. The whispers shared a tale that resonated deeply, of a mage who only wanted to make things better. When others took his gifts and twisted them, betrayed him, he fled in grief and horror and didn’t dare look back.

  
Magnus was still running. The Eye beckoned Amuril to come into the light, to run after him. He had the best chance, of all the others who had tried, of catching up with the Mage. Amuril stepped over the short wall of the magicka well, entered the Eye, and remembered nothing and everything.

* * *

 

Irowe yelled and slammed a fist down on the button. “ ** _Work_** _, damn you!_ ”

  
Her voice echoed across the empty chamber of Tower Mzark. She glared over the control pillars at the stupid, pointless contraption of curving struts and malachite discs: at the damnable malachite egg that housed the Elder Scroll she needed. She punched the glowing blue button in the only functioning pillar again, knotting her fingers in her hair and screaming when it only pulled the discs farther apart.

  
She didn’t even know how this was supposed to work or what it was supposed to do. That was what Amuril was supposed to be here for. She jerked her fingers out of her hair and narrowed her eyes. But he wasn’t here. He had to go play _hero_ at that stupid College instead of helping _her_. Irowe shoved off the controls. Amuril would know exactly how this thing worked - he would recite some dissertation or operating manual on it until she told him to shut up and just make it do what they wanted.

  
Well he wasn’t here, and she’d have to make do without her infuriating, know-it-all, older-than-dirt _bookworm_ of a husband. Irowe growled back at the controls and tugged a slim bookshelf and bench off the walls. She could make a pile of junk and climb her way up to the damn egg, roast it with the Shout, and hope and pray to all the Aedra that Elder Scrolls weren’t flammable-

  
A bright flash of light burst inside the tower. The Dwarven struts lurched on their own accord, twirling and dancing, sliding the malachite discs narrowly between each other until tones echoed from the ceiling. Irowe dropped the shelf and bench, readying a ward and lightning bolt in case it was doing something malicious. The other control pillars snapped open, revealing the blue buttons, and closed them one by one, right to left, as the struts slowed and stopped. The struts curled up into the ceiling like dead spider legs, and stayed still.

  
The malachite egg descended, a silhouette inside a ray of sunlight from the ceiling. It spun onto its side and the two halves of malachite twisted apart. The Elder Scroll lay inside, perfectly preserved through the ages, waiting for her to claim it as the light faded.

  
Irowe stared. Blinked. “What, were you waiting for me to leave to _actually start working?!_ ” She yelled at the impossible machine.

  
There was no answer. She wasn’t sure why she expected one, but then she hadn’t expected the machine to spring to life all of a sudden. Irowe walked down the ramp, powering up the ward and keeping her casting hand ready to zap anything that got any more bright ideas. Nothing emerged, nothing changed, and she peered inside both halves of the egg before reaching her hand in for the scroll. Her hands tightened around it and her stomach pitched, the dragons in her blood revolting against the time and un-time and outside-time of the Elder Scroll.

  
Irowe bit back the revulsion and pulled the scroll out, glancing around at the machine and tower with suspicion. She wasn’t going to question why the machine chose that moment to finally stop fighting her. She secured the Elder Scroll to her back and hurried down the corridor underneath the controls, to the lift she _hoped_ led upwards. Irowe jerked the lever back and steadied herself as the lift shot into the air, racing toward the sky. She had a dragon to slay.

* * *

 

Kieran snapped off another lightning bolt at the orbs - the ‘Eye balls’ as the apprentices had taken to calling them. The younger mages were barely twenty, if that. Most of them didn’t know how to act in situations like this. To be honest, he didn’t either. The only other fight he’d been in were mock spell battles with other students and that incident with the Thalmor in the Ratway.

  
He grimaced and dropped back down below the short wall, letting the others have a go. It figured that the Thalmor were involved in this too, though no one was saying exactly what happened. He’d heard everything from ‘Ancano used the Eye to zap Savos right out of existence’ to ‘Ancano was trying to destroy the whole world’ to ‘this is all an elaborate ruse of Tolfdir’s to really prove to the apprentices that wards are actually useful’.

  
He kinda wished it was the last one, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up.

  
Galbedhel, the only other Adept and non-apprentice helping him babysit this group, poked his head over the wall, bushy brown hair sticking up on all ends. They couldn’t hear the hissing anymore, so this section of the ruined city at least was clear of Eye balls... for the moment.

  
He did a quick headcount. Galbedhel, J’zargo, Onmund, Brelyna, Isobel, Vodrinas-

  
“Where’s Wynn?”

  
“Where’s Braydon?” Galbedhel asked, his brow also furrowing.

  
The two adepts looked at each other, then the winding corridor behind them. Kieran groaned and shook his head.

  
“Onmund, come on. We’ll go look for them. The rest of you keep going. We have to meet up with Faralda’s group in the second floor smithy or they’re going to move on without us.”

  
“Alright, come on. On your feet.” Galbedhel said, shooing the rest of them down the corridor. He stopped and pried a small red potion out of his satchel. “Last one.” He winced and pushed it into Kieran’s hand.

  
The Wood Elf skipped off after the others before Kieran could thank him. Kieran pocketed it, for Wynn and Braydon, if they found either Breton alive.

  
He and Onmund hurried back to the small square, peering out cautiously and keeping their ears open for the hiss of the orbs. Once they were sure it was relatively safe, they crept out, sticking together in the empty streets.

  
“Kieran.”

  
Onmund tugged his sleeve and pointed to a doorway. Wynn lay on the steps in a pool of blood, and Braydon was propped against a wall not far away. Kieran’s heart sank. He knew they were most likely dead, but... it didn’t make the blow any easier.

  
“We need to check them for potions.” Kieran muttered, walking over to the bodies. They couldn’t leave anything behind, and a health potion no matter how minor could save someone’s life.

  
He almost missed the hiss of frost magic.

  
Kieran yelled, casting a lightning bolt at the orbs as they snaked out of the abandoned house. “Onmund, _run!_ ” He couldn’t hit them all, there were too many-

  
One of them raced ahead of the others and shrieked in his face, peeling back rows and rows of razor sharp ice leading down to its core.

  
“ _Kieran!_ ”

  
The orb burst and blinded him. Kieran cried out and dropped to the ground, rolling and running toward what he hoped was the far end of the square. He ran into a wall and pressed himself against it, calling another shock spell. He opened his eyes to aim...

  
Kieran blinked and wiped his face. The orbs were glowing, more like giant magelights than evil balls of ice, and the hiss of frost magic was now the soothing chime of light and restoration. One orb zipped up to him, warm and blue, and pulsed. His shoulders slumped and his knees nearly gave out under the intense wave of _relief_ the light gave him. He looked over, seeing another orb had run up to Onmund and...

  
Kieran’s eyes widened and he pushed off the wall, running for the other side of the square. Braydon was standing up. Three lights spun around him, tussling his hair and swirling his robes. Braydon held his hands to his stomach and looked down, the dark patches in his robes fading as the cloth knit itself back together, regaining its enchanted sheen. Kieran clapped his hands on the Breton’s shoulders and the younger mage stared wide-eyed up at him.

  
“Braydon? You’re alive?”

  
“I... guess...?”

  
They turned at a groan from the doorway. Wynn gasped and pushed away, clawing up the door away from the lights, freezing as they danced around her.

  
Braydon looked around at the other lights flitted through the ruins, mending the fallen.  “... What is going on?”

* * *

 

Fallon wasn’t sure when he slid off the horse, or even where he was. All he knew was he was still in the mountains somewhere and it was night and dark and his arm _ached_. And there were no potions. Fallon flopped back onto the rocks and gravel and started crying. Either he or the horse had broken the potion bottles in the dark. The horse snorted and nuzzled him, laying down beside him. Fallon curled up next to it and wiped his face.

  
The horse would move on, eventually. Once he passed. He was almost accepting of that now. He was still debating tucking Amuril’s ring into one of the saddlebags and letting the horse go, or holding onto it. He doubted anyone would come up and find his body up in the mountains, and he did _want_ to be buried, so he wanted to keep it, but he wasn’t sure he could do that to Irowe. Or Amuril. They had been kind to him...

  
He shook his head and pulled the ring’s chain off his neck, twirling the ring in his fingers. He’d heard more than a few Nords say that a dying man’s thoughts should be of home, but he didn’t have many memories of Valenwood. Snippets, here and there. Flashes mostly. Scents, feelings, colors. Songs.

  
He inhaled shakily and wet his lips. He did want to hear Ata’s song one last time, even if he didn’t remember all the words. Fallon frowned, trying to focus on the first verses, but the words wouldn’t come. He knew it started with ‘Tarlin’ searching the graht-oak for his missing son, his youngest and the one that took after his late wife more. He knew there was a part about him finding his young son in an Altmer barracks, but...

  
“I can never remember that part, I’m sorry...” He said, shaking his head. He hoped Atheas would understand.

_‘In fourteen summers’ Tarlin cried_

_He’s never hit a mark_

_If he goes off to war for you_

_He’ll die more like than not’_

_They grabbed them both and dragged him off_

_He pleaded wasting breath_

_Till Y’ffre showed his only chance_

_To save his son from-_

  
The horse shrieked as lights descended from the mountain.

  
“Shit- _Shit!_ ” Fallon yelled, scrambling to his feet with his good arm. He bent down and picked up his bow case, trying to hit them with it but it only passed through them. “Go away! _Go away!_ ”

  
He cried out as one latched onto his bad arm- it sheathed his forearm in light. The horse bolted down the mountain, screaming. Another light wound around his arm, whipping around in a blur of white. Fallon tried to shake them off and, when that didn’t work, hugged his arm to his chest to try and pry them away. Another light dropped down right in front of his face, blinding him. The light pressed itself to his forehead, then they all faded, leaving him alone in the mountains.

  
Fallon stood very, very still. When moments passed with no other sound but the wind, he turned, eyes darting from every rock to the snow to the sky. What...

  
He held his arm carefully, unbending over it so he didn’t make it worse. He stumbled back against the rocks, trying to get his back against something solid. His feet kicked the bag of potions, and they clicked together.

  
Fallon stopped. He looked down and opened the pack. The potion bottles were whole again, and the snow no longer stained with alchemical juices. He frowned and looked around. But... he could have sworn they were broken a few minutes ago. He stopped, gaze stuck on the potion bottle. The _potions_ were whole again, so...  maybe...

  
He swallowed and gingerly rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. It was no longer red and purple and black, but its natural dusty brown. Encouraged, he shoved the rest of the sleeve down, turning his arm over and giving it a few cautious prods and squeezes with his right hand. His arm felt like it’d never been broken, but he _remembered_...

  
The first rays of the sun shone over the Druadachs, banishing the worst of the storm, and the stars above glowed brighter for it. Fallon tugged the sleeve back down and put his fingers to his lips, whistling shrilly for the startled mare. He heard the horse whinny and saw it poke its head out, then back behind an outcropping of rocks. Fallon walked down to it and reached inside his cuirass for the map Amuril had given him. The mountain, in the middle of the Karth River. That was where he had to go.

  
Maybe one of them would have some sort of explanation for those strange, healing lights.

* * *

 

Benji reached into the gates of Rkumzuleft and tugged a journeyman forward, nearly jerking him off his feet.

  
“Come on! Hurry, hurry!”

  
The others behind him were winded from the long trek through the ruins. Well, long for them: it was a shortcut compared to the routes he and Amuril usually took when they were exploring. The two of them would sneak down now and then and clear the side tunnels and back passages out looking for scraps or materials for projects. Benji stood up on tiptoes, pressing himself against the door so more mages could get through. Amuril was at the end with Master Arantu-

  
Screams echoed up the long corridors, reverberating shrill through the steam pipes. Benji suddenly felt cold. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  
Magister Galen came running back from the canyon, throwing the other door wide open and grabbing a Dunmer Warlock by the shoulders.

  
“Nivasi. Nivasi! What’s happened?”

  
She clawed at his arms and shook herself away from him. “They’re in the ruins!”

  
The screams still carried up the halls. Benji took a step back and shook his head. No. No, the Dominion couldn’t be in the ruins yet. There were still people in there. Amuril was still in there. He turned, running a hand over his mouth and looking toward the far end of the canyon, miles away through bends and dozens of dead ends. The ones who’d gotten out first - with him - couldn’t possibly be at the trail by now.

  
His gaze went to the night sky, to the flickering golden ward over the canyon and the academy above. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were going to save everyone, him and Amuril, with their constant mischief and disrespect for authority, a thumb in the eye to all the teachers. They’d even gotten Magister Galen to talk about giving them both scholarships for this.

  
The crowd running through the last hallway thinned down to four, then three more. Then one.

  
“There’s no one else. Please- please shut the door- they’re right behind us!” The last conjurer gasped.

  
 The air went dead around them. The conjurer hurried down the steps three at a time and tumbled to the ground, pushing himself back to his feet and a dead run. Benji stared at Magister Galen, then the dark corridor.

  
Magister Galen grimaced and pushed the door to-

  
Benji grabbed his arm and jerked him away. “Amuril’s in there! You can’t-!”

  
He hit the ground. All he could think of, on his back, was how keenly his face hurt. Benji sat up, grabbing his aching jaw. Magister Galen shoved the gates shut and removed the puzzle cube. The ruin’s façade echoed and groaned as ancient gears locked into place and bolts were thrown, barring anyone from entering. Or leaving.

  
Amuril was in there. Amuril was-

  
“Benji, I’m sorry. I have to protect everyone else.”

  
He wanted to hit him. He wanted to punch and kick and bite and scream but he found himself taking the offered hand and stumbling to his feet. Galen led him down the steps to the canyon floor, hurrying after the others. Benji looked over his shoulders, catching one last glimpse of the bronzen gates under the shimmering golden ward before it was blocked by dark rocks. He started to choke. Amuril was...

  
A great crack and rippling boom echoed through the canyon. Benji stopped and looked up. The ward. The faint gold light above vanished, and the only light came from the stars. The ward was gone.

  
A horn sounded up above. It was answered by three others, and more further north, up the canyon.

  
“Divines, forgive me...” Galen whispered.

  
Had they been- they were _herded_ here, to the canyon. There was little cover to be found in the bare rocks and round boulders. They were easy pickings-

  
A chorus of rumbles and lightning bolts from the soldiers above echoed down as boulders from siege engines were hurled at the canyon walls. Huge chunks of sandstone broke free and tumbled down with the boulders. Sand tumbled down into Benji’s mantle and hood and he shook his head. Galen grabbed Benji, shielding him with his own body-

  
A bright flash of blue-green erased everything from view. Benji hit the ground and curled into a ball, Magister Galen still holding onto him. His blood was pounding in his ears.

  
Eventually his breathing slowed and his heart stilled with the quiet reassurance that he wasn’t dead yet and the rocks had somehow stopped. This wasn’t how he imagined the Far Shores felt like, or how he’d wanted to arrive there.

  
Something white and blurry - several somethings - screamed and ran away. Someone started shouting angrily and water splashed nearby-

  
Water?

  
Benji sat up, crinkling his nose as he saw the heavy woolen coats of sheep rushing past. His fingers dug into the grassy mud of a riverbank. There was green _everywhere_. He’d never seen so much green in his life. He’d never felt dirt this moist before, not in Midyear. In the fields behind and all around them were the rest of the school’s mages, in varying stages of standing or sitting up.

  
“What now!? What’s the meaning of this?!” The shepherd asked, splashing into view in the shallows.

  
“What?” Magister Galen croaked.

  
“You damn mages gone and _spooked the sheep!_ ” The man hit the water with the crook of his staff, throwing water in the air. “Go cast your fancy magic somewhere else!”

  
He yelled his frustration to the skies and shook his head, splashing past them after the sheep. Magister Galen sprang to his feet and chased after him.

  
“Sir!” He caught him by the arm and the shepherd looked none too happy about it. “I am sorry for your troubles. Can you tell us where we are?”

  
The shepherd drew his head back, raising his eyebrows clear up to his straw hat. He slowly withdrew his arm from Galen’s. Benji stood up and dusted off his robes, smearing mud all over his breeches.

  
“You’re daft, you is. Magic rots the brain, ma always said-”

  
“We hail from a school north of Gilane, good shepherd, but this is clearly not Hammerfell.”

  
The shepherd’s eyes grew then narrowed. He ran his hands over his face, knocking the hat off his head. Benji looked around. All he could see was the river, a thick forest further up the western hills, and... He squinted. There looked to be a few ruined towers here and there, and a bridge leading southwest.

  
The shepherd took his staff and pointed toward the bridge. “That’s the _gates_ of Daggerfall up there, an there’s the _castle_ of Daggerfall, these are the _fields_ of Daggerfall where I let the flock graze - do you see where I’m going with this here, wizard?” He snatched his hat out of the water and pushed it back onto his head. “Wizards...” He muttered, walking off through the shallows.

  
Benji glared at him but looked closer where he’d pointed. He could make out the top of a wall, up in the hills, and green banners flying. They looked to be the same as the red dragon on green as the banners on the bridge.

  
“Daggerfall?” He asked Magister Galen. Galen stared at the river, slowly shaking his head.

  
“ _Daggerfall?_ ”

* * *

 

Tolfdir fought to keep his eyes open. He had to get up. He had to keep fighting. Ancano had to be stopped. The students-

  
He pulled the staff close to his chest and kicked Ancano away. He found the strength to get to his feet, leaning on the staff heavily. Where... where was Ancano?

  
Suddenly the hall was engulfed in light. He found the strength to stand, but... Tolfdir looked around. Everything was white, as if the hall had been whitewashed from the windows to the ceiling to the College’s sigils in the ground. His stomach dropped as he turned to the center of the hall.

  
Ancano was inside the Eye. And he was glowing.

  
Ancano’s eyes opened, irises a white-blue, and his gaze fell on Tolfdir. Tolfdir froze. Whatever he was doing, it could not be allowed to continue-

  
Someone in darker colors than the room - yelled and ran for Ancano. Amuril? The white-blue eyes turned to him and he froze, suddenly hoisted in the air.

  
“ _No._ ”

  
The word was spoken softly but reverberated off the walls. A beam of light shot from the Eye, from Ancano. It split into hundreds and stabbed him, in the arms, the forehead, the throat, the chest- Amuril screamed.

  
“No!” Tolfdir cried.

  
He raised the staff and unleashed it on the Eye. It had no noticeable effect. Tolfdir ignored and deflected the attacks against his person with a ward. He wasn’t going to let Ancano kill someone right in front of him-

  
Blurs of yellow shot past him and around the Eye, curling over tightly bound spells. The blur - the Psijic - nearest him called out in Altmeris to his brethren. Amuril dropped to the ground, forgotten for the moment. Tolfdir redoubled his efforts, taking the staff with both hands and pouring everything he had into its enchantment. He could do this, with the Psijic’s help, he could hold Ancano’s powers back while they took him down.

  
The Psijic yelled something over the gale. The wind quieted, for a moment, as Ancano turned his attention to the Psijic. The Psijic spread his arms, in tandem with the other Psijics.

  
“ _Racuvar!_ ”

  
The wind whipped up, a sudden burst of air, and a scream from the Eye, a strangled cry from Ancano, then the hall was silent, and dark.

  
Tolfdir kept the staff pointed toward the magicka core but the panes were already starting to reform. They stopped flowing through the air like water droplets and nestled back into each other around the core at a gut-wrenching slow pace. When they sealed, he pulled the staff away. Amuril-

  
Tolfdir cast magelight so he could see and hurried over, pressing his hands on the mer’s chest. “Master Malcior. Amuril. Are you alrigh...”

  
A growing dread filled his body. The elf laying before him was a white-haired Altmer, yes, but one wearing Thalmor robes. Tolfdir jerked his hands back and stood up. His hand felt wrong, the heart beating fast in his chest felt wrong. Ancano. That was Ancano. Then who-

  
“Where is Master Malcior?” Tolfdir cried, turning to the Psijics.

  
The elf had done so much for them, to stop Ancano. He couldn’t believe the Aubris would just let him _die_.

  
The Psijics however, had other concerns.

  
“It isn’t stopping...” One of them murmured. All three of them stared, equally grim and mildly panicked faces lit by the searing white magicka over the well.

  
The Eye was still turning. The panes were malformed and starting to unseal, acting out a pattern only half-remembered. Some of them collided with the others, sending shards bouncing off the stones. The circling pattern was lopsided, and growing more and more skewed and wobbling dangerously.

  
“The Eye is unstable. He was cast down but the wheel still _turns_.” The lead Psijic growled. He turned to Tolfdir. “We must safeguard it or your college and the world will be destroyed.”

  
Tolfdir blinked. He... what?

  
“Tandil. Gelebros.” The Psijic barked. They all three began casting spells, and the air around the Eye began to shimmer.

  
Tolfdir shook his head and walked forward. “What- but- But I-”

  
“See to the Arch-Mage, Master Wizard.” The Psijic said, looking over his shoulder. “We will be watching.”

  
Then they - and the Eye - were gone. The hall fell truly dark, but the sun was rising over the Sea of Ghosts through the open windows. The sun’s first rays shone on something white inside the magicka well. Ice gripped his heart. Nine, no, they couldn’t have left part of the Eye here...

  
Inside the well was not a shard of the Eye, as he would understand it. It was an elf, an Altmer, with brilliant white hair and white master robes. Tolfdir’s breathing slowed as he approached, and he leaned heavily on the Staff of Magnus.

  
He had never seen this elf before.


	31. As The World Falls Down

> _Saarthal was the site of terrible bloodshed, when the elves attempted to drive the Nords out of Skyrim. They succeeded only in incurring their wrath in the form of Ysgramor and his fabled Five Hundred Companions._

* * *

  
TIME solidified around him, anchoring him back to his body despite the vertigo. His skin felt wrong; too tight and not tight enough; soaked, and desiccated; burning, yet cold. He could feel himself breathing and that was enough to panic by itself. Compared to the totality of the Aubris, the six senses of one body was trifling, but the constant presence of all six senses and the inability to leave them was overloading him.

  
“... Has anyone seen Arniel?”

  
A voice. Something to focus on besides his dry throat, soaked skin, burning veins-

  
“Knowing him, he buggered off to check his experiments.” A gravelly voice spat. “He’ll come out eventually.”

  
He was used to simply examining a different part of the Aubris when a mystery, a curiosity presented itself. He could not do that now: all he had were the senses of this one body. Faintly, he recalled other, primitive ways to suss out the answer to mysteries. Intuition. Inference. Memory. _Memory_.

  
“Nirya, can you return to Saarthal and tell Faralda to start bringing the others back? It should be safe now.”

  
He had memories of this place, of those voices. Recent ones. He knew the soft, reedy voice. A friend.

  
“Of course, Tolfdir.”

  
The memories trickled back. A staff. The Eye. A hall, a college. A lich, a death mask. Another friend, a Bosmer. Fallon. Dragons. Irowe.

  
Amuril.

  
That was his name. His name was Amuril. How had he forgotten that? The pain and tightness of his chest faded. Memory told him this was normal, to feel his heartbeat and his chest rising and falling.

  
“What do we do with them?” The gravelly voice asked.

  
“Ancano should be moved somewhere private. We may need to produce the body later.”

  
“I know a few spots in the Midden we could keep him.” Someone added darkly.

  
“Don’t...” Tolfdir sighed. “Don’t damage the body, that’s all I ask. Now, I think we should be preparing for the students’ return.”

  
“What about the other one?”

  
“Leave him, for now.”

  
Boots turned on glass shards, and soft footfalls faded away. It was quiet in the hall. The liquid magicka lapped against the walls of the well, and he could hear the wind blowing in through the windows. They had been broken in a fight, he remembered that.

  
He heard a spell being cast, then footsteps approaching. Suddenly hands snuck under his shoulders and knees, and he was lifted out of the magicka well. It was unnerving how limp his body was. He didn’t even stiffen. He was carried somewhere, but he hadn’t quite regained his sense of direction yet. The wind quieted, and the footsteps seemed to echo louder.

  
A door was unlocked and pushed open with a spell, and they entered. Chimes of magicka lights greeted them, passing as they went deeper into the room. His carrier stopped and lowered him; onto a bed. He heard whispering. Talos, Akatosh, Stendarr, Mara. A prayer.

  
He curled his fingers. The fabric on the bed was soft, smooth to the touch and his fingertips glided across it. He tried to open his eyes, and they did: slowly. He saw the cathedral-tall walls and ceiling of one of the college’s halls, sunlight streaming down from high windows. Tolfdir was standing over him, eyes closed as he prayed. He finished the prayer and looked down, eyes widening in shock as he saw Amuril was awake.

  
“Good morning.” Amuril winced. His voice sounded coarse, as if he hadn’t used it before. Amuril frowned. It... it was morning, wasn’t it?

  
Tolfdir’s hands were at his side, tensed. “Who are you?”

  
He swallowed before answering. “Amuril?”

  
Tolfdir’s hands relaxed. “... _Amuril?_ ” He shook his head. “Forgive me, but... you don’t _look_ like Master Malcior.”

  
Amuril frowned. What was he talking about? Tolfdir walked away, rummaging through drawers, and returned with a small hand mirror. Amuril took it and sat up, holding it to his face.

  
The first thing he noticed was that his eyes were no longer yellow. Now his eyes were pale blue, almost white, and the whites of his eyes were lightened also. The second noticeable thing was that his hair was shock white. He traced a hand over his cheek, then his brow, concerned to see the hand in the mirror do the same.

  
He stared up to Tolfdir for an explanation, but neither of them had one. Amuril set the mirror down, movement in white catching his attention. His master robes were gone. In their place were thick white robes, and when he held out the school detailing of the shirt, it wasn’t any he recognized. Amuril frowned, shifting the fabric between his fingers. Depending on the light and the angle, the color changed: a rainbow when it moved, but colorless if still.

  
“What happened?”

  
“I’m not sure.” Tolfdir said. “Ancano took control of the Eye, but then the Psijics returned: they helped stop him. I went to help you, but Ancano was in your place. The Psijics took the Eye, he said it was unstable. This- this was only a few minutes ago.”

  
Amuril stared at his feet, his hands in his lap. So Quaranir returned. He frowned. Psijics normally didn’t act directly in events, if they participated at all.

  
“What do you remember?”

  
Amuril blinked, looking up to Tolfdir. “I... I know we went to stop Ancano. I was paralyzed, with the others, and you were not. But... I have no memory of what happened, or how... _this_...” He held up the folds of the robe. He knew he must have done something, but the details escaped him.

  
Outside, a long, bright horn sounded. They both froze.

  
“For the moment, I believe you.” Tolfdir said, before running for the door. “Stay here!”

  
Amuril pushed himself off the bed, immediately crumpling to the ground. That was an Aldmeri war horn. They were in Skyrim. There shouldn’t _be_ any Aldmeri war horns here - there was only one at the Embassy, in case of attack-

  
The Embassy. Amuril froze. Ancano had wanted him to go to the Embassy, to fetch wizards who knew teleportation spells. It had been days since he’d learned the Malciors disobeyed him. More than enough time to send someone there, and have the mages teleport back. He crawled to his feet, stumbling into a shelf of alchemy ingredients. He had to- he had to get down there, to help Tolfdir. He could lie and say the situation was under control and send them away, somehow - if his damned _feet_ would work.

  
Amuril clung to the walls and walked along the outside until he reached the door. The stairs outside thankfully had rails for him to hold onto. He stopped to catch his breath on the Arcanaeum’s landing. His hand dropped down to his side and he wiped it on his robe. He stopped. The mask.

  
Amuril reached inside and pulled the mask out, letting the enchantment trickle through his palms. It would be stronger if he wore it, but the idea of putting that draugr’s mask on his head was revulsive. He was positive there was still ash on the inside from when the draugr disintegrated.

  
Footsteps echoed through the library.

  
“Master Tolfdir! Master Tolfdir- you’re _alive?!_ ” The Dunmer said, wheeling back and staring at Amuril in shock.

  
Amuril stepped away from the wall, keeping his hands down so he wasn’t a threat. Tolfdir hadn’t recognized him, and he doubted this master did either. He tucked the mask back into its satchel, but kept his hand on it. He still needed the magicka it was feeding him.

  
“Tolfdir went downstairs, I assume to deal with the Thalmor. Where are they?”

  
“In the courtyard.” The Illusion Master swallowed. “They have Colette. And the Stormcloaks are on their way.”

  
“ _What?_ ”

  
He pointed down the stairs behind him. “They’re already at the city gate. I don’t know how many of them can make it over the bridge but-”

  
“Find Tolfdir. If they get inside the College it will be a bloodbath.” The Dunmer nodded and ran down the stairs. Amuril stopped and ran a hand over his mouth. “Divines, protect us...” He whispered.

  
He hurried down the stairs after the Dunmer master. He had no idea how many Thalmor there were, but he doubted the college mages were strong enough to take them on so soon after the fight with Ancano. Amuril reached the empty main hall and stopped. Ancano was lying face down in the broken colored glass, his body shrouded from the sunlight by the walls. So he was dead then, and the Thalmor had one of the mages as a hostage. This could end very, very badly.

  
“Release Ancano!” A voice yelled out.

  
Amuril crept to the middle of the door where it was ajar, and peered out. There were at least eight Thalmor, all mages, standing just in front of Shalidor’s cape. One of them was holding a long knife to a woman’s throat. Colette, the Restoration Master judging from the robes. The other Thalmor stood ready with shock spells or paralysis, and the College mages just in front of the door were doing the same.

  
“Let Colette go first.” Nobody moved. Someone coughed. Tolfdir turned to the Illusion Master. “Drevis, go get Ancano ready, but don’t bring him out until we have Colette.”

  
“I... Yes, Tolfdir.”

  
Drevis walked to the door and Amuril moved aside, letting him through. The mer didn’t look his way before hurrying up the stairs. Amuril frowned. Ancano was still lying on the floor. A feint? The mer was a master of Illusion.

  
“Where is the Eye?” The lead Thalmor demanded.

  
His tone was more relaxed. So he believed the mages were cooperating, that was good. Tolfdir didn’t answer, turning to the other mages. They needed more time then.

  
“The Psijics have taken it.” He said at last.

  
“A likely story.” The mer laughed. “If you have nothing to hide, mages, then open the doors and let us see for ourselves.”

  
“No.”

  
“Open the _door_.”

  
Colette gasped as the knife dug deeper into her neck. “Elf _bastard_ -”

  
“ _Now!_ ”

  
Amuril looked around for Drevis. Tolfdir was still stalling, so whatever they were planning, it wasn’t in place yet. They weren’t ready yet, and they might not be, not in time. His gaze fell on Ancano’s prone form. Maybe he could take his robes - they should fit- But no, there wasn’t _time_.

  
“Do not hurt her. I will... open the door.”

  
Amuril looked behind him. There wasn’t time. They needed a way to take out all the Thalmor at once. Something like-

  
His eyes unfocused as he remembered a moment not even an hour ago when Ancano took out him and the rest of the mages save Tolfdir. A mass paralysis spell. That could work. He even know how to cast one, he just... rarely did so. Amuril started weaving his hands, crafting the spell, with each arc wider than the one before. He could feel the tips of his fingers prickling as it built, and he slowly turned around. It wouldn’t affect anything behind him, so facing away from the Thalmor wouldn’t do anyone a bit of good.

  
Over the static of the spell he heard footsteps approaching and he stopped weaving, merely holding the spell in place over his chest. The hairs of the fabric in his robes started to stand on end. The door opened, Tolfdir on the other side-

  
Amuril unleashed the mass paralysis spell, sending it surging in front of him. Tolfdir dropped to his knees; the other mages - not prepared for it - fell to the ground. The wave spread, slamming into the Thalmor mages and Colette. The one holding Colette froze with her and they both fell. The ones casting shock spells fell as well. The ones preparing paralysis spells however, were able to resist and stayed standing.

  
Amuril leapt forward and grabbed the Staff of Magnus from where Tolfdir had dropped it-

  
It was ripped out of his hands from behind. Amuril turned, to berate Tolfdir- they had to rescue Colette-

  
Tolfdir was still on the ground. Ancano had the Staff. Amuril’s face twisted in confusion. How had he-

  
Ancano whipped the staff around, slamming it into Amuril’s ribs, then the side of his neck. Amuril dropped to the ground with a cry. Tolfdir leapt up to grab the staff-

  
Ancano brought the other end up and caught Tolfdir in the face with it. As he fell, Ancano spun the staff around and used it on Tolfdir until he was barely moving. Amuril got to his hands and knees.

  
“Ancano! Stop-”

  
Ancano growled and turned the staff on Amuril. Amuril couldn’t breathe, couldn’t gasp, couldn’t cry out. He collapsed on the ground, next to the other masters.

  
Ancano stopped the staff’s attack and reached down, grabbing Amuril by the collar and lifting him up. The few mer who had resisted Amuril’s paralysis attack came running up.

  
“Sir! Sir, are you alright-”

  
“You took _everything_ from me.” Ancano seethed. “ _Everything_ -”

  
One of the mer screamed and spun around, an arrow in his back. A blur of metal - a throwing axe - buried in his chest and he slumped to the ground.

  
“ _Wards!_ ” Ancano yelled.

  
Another mer cried out as an arrow struck his arm. Amuril looked up. Just crossing the courtyard now were the Nords, mainly Stormcloaks by the deep blue tabards far outnumbering the pale blue of Winterhold. Jarl Skald was at their head, leading the charge. The rest of the Thalmor threw up wards, blocking the hail of arrows and more axes.

  
“ _Recall!_ ”

  
“The others, sir-!”

  
“Damn them! The staff is the prior-!”

  
A blast of green struck Ancano in the chest and he dropped, the staff clattering to the ground. Amuril kicked it away into the snow. Tolfdir charged another paralysis spell. A wall of fire exploded from above, rising from the ground to the tops of the trees, blocking the Stormcloaks’ advance. Amuril looked up, his leg still outstretched from kicking the staff. Drevis. Drevis was on the upper walls-

  
Ancano dove after the staff, but one of the other mer grabbed him - and Amuril - as the College’s courtyard blurred away.

  
“ ** _No!_** Muril, let _go-!_ ”

  
Amuril tried to wrench himself out of the mer’s grip - he had to get to Tolfdir. He couldn’t go back with them to the Embassy- they’d kill him or worse-

  
The College warped out of sight, replaced by the hazy pre-dawn of Haafingar’s hills, and an all too familiar, foreboding grey wall and cold iron fence. Amuril’s chest seized. _No. No no no no-_


	32. They Say the Good Die Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bro insisted that I post this before New Years so I get all of Portents done by close of 2017. Can't really argue with that logic, and the last chapter was on the small side.
> 
> Course that means, I have to post this from my hotel room in San Diego. On my shitty laptop that could die at any moment.
> 
> :D

> _A traditional saying of the Wood Elves is that "One man's miracle is another man's accident."_

* * *

  
FIRST Emissary Elenwen's office was silent for several minutes as the extent of their troubles sank in. The team of teleportation wizards returned some time before dawn, Ancano and Master Malcior in tow. They were only a third of their original number, counting Master Malcior and Ancano. Before now, the greatest tragedy they’d suffered in Skyrim, astonishingly, was a murdered justiciar here and there. Despite the obvious lacking of _something_ one needed to be posted here, most of their agents had been competent enough to avoid getting killed.

  
Unless of course Elenwen got involved, as she had here.

  
Frankly, Rulindil was surprised they _had_ any wizards who knew teleportation spells in this backwater outpost. Guides were a noble if boring calling for most who trained in those spells, and there was little use for them in the Empire outside the more civilized embassies. Nords thought horse carts being the fastest mode of transportation was perfectly acceptable, another reason he was glad he rarely left the embassy.

  
The story the wizards told was not a happy one. They had left seventeen mer - formally under Iachesar’s command, and abandoned by Ancano - paralyzed, at the mercy of the mages and the Stormcloak army. Ancano himself was less than helpful - the mer refused to answer to any sort of question posed to him or his incompetent sycophant. The moment he entered the Ambassador’s office he set a moonstone coin down with a repeating, interlocking lemniscate etched deep into its metal. Every answer was dismissed on the grounds that no one present spoke for the Thalmor Council, but the Head of Inquisitors or Battlereeve, and therefore he was not accountable to them.

   
Rulindil took perverse pleasure in hiding the coin from sight with a spell until after Ancano left; he pocketed it not long after under the guise of reaching for his tea. He had been woken at the ungodly hour of five in the morning - _again_ \- and was not in a particularly philanthropic mood.

  
To make matters worse, Elenwen forbade Iachesar from recalling the majority of the justiciars, even from the Old Holds. She seemed to believe that Ancano’s actions - which of course would be successful because he acted for the Council and therefore was infallible - would be the start of some great Aldmeri campaign, and the justiciars would be instrumental in adding her name to the annals of history. The argument between her and Iachesar was loud enough Rulindil was able to hear it from his office in the Solar, despite being a building and a courtyard away.

  
He himself had purposefully avoided Elenwen and ordered all his agents to go to ground and report in by two weeks. Not technically disobeying, if she had never given him an order or even suggestion he could disobey. He did know Iachesar refrained from sending out any further units to the Old Holds, assigning them to Markarth instead on some claim of a Talos cult growing around the shrine there.

  
As the day went on however, Rulindil and Iachesar began to suspect that sending any units out at all was a mistake. It was Middas, but they’d already had four units return to the embassy from Hjaalmarch and Whiterun, some of them injured. Apparently the entire Stormcloak army was swarming up to the Karth’s eastern banks - only hunting Justiciars, if two of the leads were to be believed - and the Legion showed no inclination of stopping them. They only battened down their hatches and fortified the towns leaving the Justiciars to fend for themselves.

  
And of course, Elenwen’s current loss of sanity hinged on the fact Ancano _was_ acting on the Council's orders. A testimony that, Rulindil reminded himself with a roll of his eyes, _they **knew**_ was a lie because the Malciors were there to investigate his mysterious silence.

  
He stroked his beard, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet evening. There was only one conclusion: an Aedric artifact had been found, used, and lost to the _Psijics_ of all people. The mer, under Ancano and Elenwen’s instructions, had lost another Aedric artifact to backwater mages and riled up the Stormcloak rebels to make matters worse. No doubt the locals were already frothing themselves into a frenzy of Wild Hunt proportions, and the units out in the wild were bearing the brunt of their fury. While the situation in Skyrim was already held together by a hair, with the attacking dragons and the rebellion, Elenwen - and Ancano - had only made things _worse_.

  
The part Rulindil found hardest to swallow personally was that Master Malcior's wife - the High Kinlord's daughter - was the first to die. According to her husband anyway, though that was all Amuril would say on the matter. Their servant was also missing, presumed dead, which... was suspicious, to say the least. The other mer did report they had seen neither of them since Ancano first used the Eye, so there could be some truth to it.

  
“This is... a catastrophe of the highest order.” Iachesar whispered.

  
The conversation had paused while Iachesar contemplated something. For his sake, Rulindil hoped it was his retirement. The mer was a Kinlord's brother (Sunhold, to be specific) and had multiple connections much like Elenwen, though he was less ambitious than her. Rulindil only had High Kinlord Vicarian, and the patriarch always seemed disappointed in him despite all he'd done to please him. Of course, the High Kinlord always seemed disappointed in something or other so he believed it wasn't personal...

  
Perhaps this lull was the time to introduce sense to the conversation.

  
“The Council needs to be told-”

  
“ _No._ ” Elenwen snapped. “We do not inform the Council until we have a better grasp of what is going on.”

  
Rulindil frowned. “One of their agents attempted to wipe mankind off the face of Tamriel and the men are understandably _upset_. They should at least be informed of _that_. The other embassies-”

  
“Are in no danger. Word does not travel that quickly in Skyrim. It will take the Nords time to understand the breadth of Ancano's actions. The College will be blamed; they are already distrusted by the locals, it is hardly unusual.”

  
“We’ve lost too many mer.” Iachesar murmured. “And we’re going to lose more...”

  
“The justiciars will be fine.” Elenwen insisted.

  
Rulindil tapped the arms of his chair. “Well, I see my opinion is unwanted, so I will retire.” He sighed and walked to the door. “My bed is a far more comfortable resting place-”

  
“Rulindil. You are not to contact the Council or Alinor in any way. Do I make myself _clear?_ ”

  
Rulindil turned back and raised an eyebrow. “I am going to _bed_ , Madame Ambassador. I know the woman’s father; he will expect to hear it from me, not a letter.”

  
“So you’ll be off to Markarth in the morning?” Iachesar asked, cutting off Elenwen.

  
He was of course referring to the teleportation beacon at the small 'office' the Thalmor kept in the stone city's keep; the large crystals enhanced a guide’s skill with the spell, allowing them to hone in on the beacons and use them without a mark. With a guide’s help a mer could 'hop' from beacon to beacon all the way down to Summerset. The Thalmor only had one beacon in Skyrim, in Markarth, thanks to the local hatred of civilized transport.

  
Rulindil adjusted his gloves. “Unless something truly dire happens, yes, I suspect I shall go to Alinor. Just for a day.”

  
Elenwen scowled. “Rulindil, do you honestly expect us to believe you're simply delivering condolences?”

  
He stopped and flexed his hands. His fingers curled into a fist but he forced himself to straighten them. He could think of nothing civil he had to say to her so he left; he pulled the door shut behind him and stalked off upstairs.

  
Rulindil reached his bedroom and locked the door behind him, throwing the bolt. He doubted anyone beside the prisoners knew of his dreamwalking habits, but he didn't want to chance being woken up. Elenwen’s comments were... troubling; she might suspect something. She might _try_ something, and that unnerved him. He had heard tales even as a child about the High Kinlord’s eldest son being murdered as he slept, and he’d sworn years ago that would never happen to him. Even if Elenwen or her lackeys didn’t act, the nightmares he'd had as recompense for that interruption in Last Seed still made his skin crawl. He didn’t want interruptions.

  
The moment the sleeping tonic reached his nostrils he was in Quagmire. Rulindil hurried down the branching paths, looking for someone - anyone - who could help him. While every dreamwalker had a limited range for detecting other mortals, they could find any Dreamwalker in Quagmire provided they walked far enough. The dreams of western Skyrim stretched as far as he could see, but there was no one else in sight.

  
It was early afternoon in Alinor, and he would be lucky to find anyone in the Dominion still asleep. The time difference always seemed greater in the winter, when the sun set before decent mer ate dinner. Vaermina was kind to him however: in the distance he saw a figure standing over a dream.

  
“You there! Where are you?”

  
The mer was a girl half his age. “Shimmerene. I say, who are you-”

  
“You'll do. Go to Alinor. Find High Kinlord Asuroth Vicarian immediately. The Summerset Treasury in Alinor. I have important information for the Thalmor Council that affects all of Skyrim. Go now.”

  
“And you are?” She asked, crossing her arms.

  
“Rulindil, Third Emissary to Skyrim. Now _go!_ ”

  
She sighed and waved her arm, setting a horde of Sload larvae upon a screeching farmer. The girl closed her eyes and disappeared, her tribute paid.

  
Rulindil paced the thin paths, hesitant to wander too far from where he thought the other Dreamwalker had been. Without another Dreamwalker to anchor the dreams to _their_ location in Tamriel, the only dreams he could find were those of Nords. Very angry Nords, grieving for the departed and fearing they were next. Very... _imaginative_ Nords, whose dreams could very easily be nightmares, if used from another point of view.

  
He wasn't sure how long it had been, or if the girl did as he'd asked at all. Perhaps he should work on his own tribute of nightmares while he waited. Perhaps High Kinlord Vicarian wouldn't be coming at all-

  
“Rulindil.” High Kinlord Vicarian's gruff voice had that faint tremble of rage that made his spine shiver. “The entire province had best be _on fire_ or something of the sort. I do not appreciate 'afternoon naps' at my age.”

  
“Psijics.”

  
He had the High Kinlord's full attention. Rulindil detailed everything Master Malcior had told him. The Eye. The Psijics. What Amuril said happened to Irowe. When they had finished discussing the details, High Kinlord Vicarian was silent for a long time.

  
“He’s lying.” High Kinlord Vicarian's voice was firm. “She is not dead. He is trying to hide her from me. Perhaps she had nothing to do with this disaster and what little honor he has is making him shield her from it.”

  
High Kinlord Vicarian was his patron; he had a certain attachment to the old mer. In a way, he was the closest thing he had to a father. He didn’t want to correct him, or point out that his ‘daughter’, such as she was, was more than capable of stirring up trouble on her own. In fact, most of the incident reports involving them were instigated or escalated by her. Rulindil kept this to himself.

  
The elderly patriarch always wanted a daughter; the Aedra had granted his wish with a bastard. Despite all that, Rulindil knew High Kinlord Vicarian cared deeply for her. He always spoke of her fondly, in his own way. The few wrinkles in his face disappeared when he thought of her. She'd given him a grandson that, while taking after his father, was still doted upon by him and his wife. Speaking against her - to the High Kinlord’s face - was... ill-advised.

  
“Do I take it that your ban on the Malciors is temporarily lifted-?”

  
“ _No._ Leave him to me.”

  
Rulindil bowed, the beginning of a smile curling his lips. “Yes, High Kinlord.”

  
“You are sure the Psijics took the artifact, this 'Eye of Magnus'?'”

  
“Yes.”

  
High Kinlord Vicarian raised his fists and shook them, finding nothing suitable to vent his frustration on. It was perhaps the worst of all possible scenarios: 'a catastrophe of the highest order', as Iachesar had said. And High Kinlord Vicarian was half a world away, along with anyone else claiming shreds of sanity.

  
“I will take this to the Council. See to it that short of defending the Embassy your branch does _nothing_. Any action could jeopardize our position in the war.”

  
“I will make that clear to my superiors, but they may not listen-”

  
“For the moment, Rulindil, you answer to _me_ and the Council: no one else. This is a temporary promotion, nothing more.”

  
Rulindil kept his face perfectly placid, but he couldn't stop his ears from standing a little taller, his shoulders a little straighter. A promotion? So there was some good to come of this disaster after all. Perhaps when this was over he would be rewarded further. When Irowe was found, there would be no reason for him to remain in Skyrim. He could transfer somewhere decent, perhaps even back to Alinor. This could shorten his path to a title and High Kinlord Vicarian's approval by _years_ , decades even.

  
While he was musing on this and fighting the smirk at his lip's corners, he nearly missed the High Kinlord's departure. Rulindil blinked. He couldn't be leaving already.

  
“High Kinlord. Your tithe-”

  
“There is no time. And this is nightmare enough for me...”

  
High Kinlord Vicarian faded into the blackness and Rulindil was alone. The dreams around him shifted from the common terrors of Altmer peasants to the wailing of Nords. Rulindil sighed and walked around for someone suitable for his own tithe, preferably someone with information on the justiciar units in the wild. It was going to be a long night...

 

 

  
“Sir...? Sir...? Emissary?”

  
Rulindil ignored the mouse-like taps on the wood of his door. If he was still and held his breath, he could hear shouting outside the muffled walls. Rulindil threw off the covers and tiptoed to the window overlooking the courtyard. The glass was frosted from the near-freezing temperature and the damp that haunted Haafingar’s coasts. He had to clear a circle to peer outside.

  
Conservators. Eight of them, in full regalia.

  
Rulindil opened the window and leaned out, wide black eyes taking in the billowing wine cloaks and intricate Glass armor. The ornate but faceless helmets of the Council's personal bodyguards, the very best the Dominion had to offer. His gaze flicked up to the sky; the sun was barely brightening the horizon. It hadn't been twelve hours and they sent eight Conservators. By Vaermina, they sent _eight Conservators_ to the Embassy.

  
He cackled like a schoolboy watching the statuesque mer in the inner courtyard; Elenwen was in _such_ trouble.

  
“Emissary?”

  
Rulindil shut the window and threw on his best robes. He had, after all, received a promotion on level with the mer outside. He answered only to High Kinlord Vicarian - his contact in Alinor and the most blessed of patrons - and the Council itself. Rulindil straightened his robes and beamed; no matter how temporary it was, he was going to enjoy this.

  
He stood frozen, his hand just above the door handle and he calmed himself. It would not do to have Elenwen suspecting him - not that it would matter in a few minutes. She would be demoted down to body-disposal faster than she could blink. He'd finally be free of those atrocious parties-

  
The mer knocked again and Rulindil threw the door open, startling him back into the hallway. He allowed himself a small smile at the reaction; there was no skill to frightening commoners as they feared everything, but he did love the look on their faces.

  
“You're- there's um- Emissary Elenwen, uh-”

  
“Did the cook steal your tongue, Justiciar? Spit it out.”

  
The mer gulped hard enough Rulindil wondered if he had _swallowed_ his tongue. “Sorry s-sir. There's Conserva-”

  
“Conservators beneath my window. Yes, I had noticed-”

  
“ _What did you do?!_ ”

  
Rulindil winced at Elenwen's frantic shrill voice. He walked to the banister overlooking the lobby. Elenwen and Iachesar were downstairs, already fully-dressed. Elenwen was _livid_.

  
Iachesar attempted to be the voice of calm. “Elenwen, now is not the time for this-”

  
“What did you do?! What have you done?!”

  
“Elenwen!” Iachesar shouted. The old mer sighed and rubbed his temple. “There is no manner in which a mer of his status could have contacted the _Council_. And even if he had, why would he return here? You know Rulindil: he would be back in Alinor gloating about it.”

  
Rulindil gripped the banister. “I beg your pardon-?!”

  
A rap at the door cut off further conversation. The wary knocker - a mer in an ordinary wizard uniform - opened it and stood in the doorway.

  
“Ondolemar.” Elenwen seethed. “I suppose _you're_ the culprit behind this.”

  
“Emissary Elenwen, I do not appreciate being woken at one in the morning by a squad of Conservators. I can't think of any mer who _does_. They are, however, waiting for the three of you. The others are gathered in the main courtyard.”

  
Elenwen spared one last glare for Rulindil - which was coldly returned - before she stormed out the door into the twilight. Iachesar turned slowly, taking in the Solar for undoubtedly the last time, before he sighed and followed his superior. Rulindil shrugged his shoulders and descended the stairs.

  
“I would tread carefully if I were you.” Ondolemar murmured as Rulindil passed. Rulindil didn't even dignify that with an eye roll.

  
In the main courtyard all the Justiciars were gathered regardless of their state of dress. Most were in nightclothes covered with whatever robes and cloaks they could grab quickly. Ten mer were in armor, no doubt the night watch. The gold-cloaked Conservator - the commander of their elite unit - pivoted to face the crowd. He opened a scroll with the Council's seal and read it aloud. Rulindil allowed himself a small smile; this would be delicious.

  
“Advisor Ancano. Master Amuril Malcior. Muril of Aranor’s Watch.” Ancano stepped forward, the other mer at his elbow; someone shoved Master Malcior. “You are all under arrest. You will stand before the Council to answer for your actions in Winterhold.”

  
Four Conservators marched forward and seized them, clamping shackles around their wrists and dragging the three forward. Ancano was in shock. Master Malcior looked dazed. The third mer, merely an accomplice, was struggling and protesting his innocence. It only earned him a spear in the ribs.

  
Rulindil blinked, letting the minute wave of disappointment pass. Of course they would deal with the troublemakers first, it was only logical. And with Master Malcior answering to the Council, no doubt once he located Irowe, Rulindil would be released from watching over the ill-fated couple like some surrogate mother hen. This would be the last he saw of Master Malcior or their brat, to be sure.

  
“First Emissary Elenwen.” The lead called.

  
Elenwen stepped forward, the image of humility for her superiors. “Yes?”

  
“By order of the Council, this day the Twenty-Fifth of First Seed, you are removed from office.”

  
“ _What?!_ ”

  
Rulindil smirked; the lead ignored her. “You will remain in Skyrim as Ambassador for the duration of the Stormcloak Rebellion, after which you will be relieved of duty and return to Alinor.”

  
The smirk disappeared. She was _staying_ _?!_ Rulindil broke out in a cold sweat. That woman couldn't be allowed to stay. They had to remove her before she ruined things further-

  
“Second Emissary Iachesar.” The Conservator continued before anyone could comprehend events fully.

  
“I'm... I'm here.” Iachesar offered himself up and stepped forward.

  
The Conservator studied him a moment before continuing. “You are henceforth removed from office and dismissed from service.”

  
It was a visible blow to the old mer, but he took it far more gracefully than any of the others, and with considerable dignity.

  
“I understand. I will... pack my things-”

  
“Third Emissary Rulindil.”

  
Rulindil jumped and he swore his Concealment spell dropped for a second. “Y-yes?”

  
By Vaermina, they couldn't punish him for any of this. He had nothing to do with this- he had told them this was going _on_ , he was why they were _here_ -

  
But what if the High Kinlord hadn't shared that? What if they were all being punished? Would he retain his promotion if they took him back to Alinor-?

  
“You will remain as Third Emissary and Lead Inquisitor.”

  
He could have fainted with relief if not for the indignation that they would frighten him so. How dare they-

  
“Justiciar Ondolemar.”

  
“Yes, I am here.” Ondolemar answered from Rulindil's right.

  
“You are hereby promoted to Provisional First Emissary of the Thalmor to the Kingdom of Skyrim. Ambassador Elenwen and Third Emissary Rulindil answer to you. _You_ answer directly to the Council.” The Conservator retrieved a sealed scroll from his belt and handed it to Ondolemar.

  
Ondolemar?! _Ondolemar_ was being placed in charge of all _Skyrim?!_ The mer wasn't fit to root out Talos worshippers that were right under his nose! Rulindil knew for a fact the mer had been dallying about arresting some bard in Markarth- he'd written a report to Elenwen and it was somewhere in his desk-

  
“Is there any part of these orders that are unclear to you?”

  
Rulindil exhaled and tried not to grind his teeth too loudly. On his left Elenwen was doing the same. Iachesar had already resigned himself to his fate. Ondolemar glanced over the orders and rolled the scroll up.

  
“Are we receiving a replacement for Emissa- Iachesar?”

  
“That depends on if this embassy is still _standing_ in three months.” The Conservator moved to an attention stance. “You will report to the Council on the status of our relations in Skyrim. A beacon is being provided. Further instructions are in the scroll. We are watching you.”

  
“I understand.” Ondolemar said with a slight bow.

  
The common rabble was gossiping quietly, whispering to each other about what on Nirn was happening. Faintly, he could hear Ancano’s lackey crying. Even that mer silenced himself when the Conservator pivoted and marched back to face his subordinates.

  
“Conservators! Form _ranks!_ ” The eight mer glided into a long diamond surrounding their three charges. “Ready!”

  
The two mer on the ends dropped back with a dual-handed Teleportation spell glowing in their palms. The other Conservators clasped forearms together so they formed a long chain linking the two spells and all eleven mer together. It was easier to transport groups that way, with the two Teleporters sharing the load.

  
“ _Recall!_ ”

  
The spells cast and they all warped out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far! Please let me know what you thought of it. From here, the story splits into three sequels.
> 
> Irowe's tale (the tale of the Dragonborn) will continue in **[Omens of War and Birthright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178855)**
> 
> Amuril's tale (the tale of the Mage) will continue in **Trials**
> 
> Fallon's tale (the tale of the Blades) will continue in **Broken Dreams so Grand**
> 
>   
>  ========  
> 
> 
> I would like to thank a couple people for helping me get this far.
> 
>   * Obligatory statement of gratitude to Bethesda for making the games and being very hands off even encouraging of fan content.
>   * My brother: You bought Legendary Skyrim and begged me to do research so you could have an Altmer with a lore-friendly name (while spending 3 hours on the Character Creation screen). Your many Altmer characters eventually got me thinking 'but what about a Thalmor Dragonborn?' which culminated in this. You were and still are my idea-bouncer and craziness-checker, even if we will agree to disagree on some minor plot points. This is the first 25K+ anything I've finished, and you helped me do that. I will always be grateful for that.
>   * My mom: Your undying love for Fallon is so pure (even if you just threatened me two hours ago to call FanFic CPS so they will take Fallon away from me and give him to a nicer author). I'd been looking for a beta reader for years, but really I think I just needed someone I could read it out loud to who is familiar with the world but still needs clarification now and then. Thanks, and I love you.
>   * [the-Orator](http://the-orator.tumblr.com/): my first encounter (years ago) with someone who had Skyrim OCs and elaborate backstories for them. Your answered asks were my first dip into the ocean of TES Lore and shaped a lot of my first impressions about the wider world of Tamriel.
>   * The Meme's discussion threads and various prompts, as well as the Lore Reddit: I loved the Meme's discussion threads as a place where I could try out more TES specific plot ideas on other writers, and the Lore Reddit for helping me dig deeper into the meta and fanon.
>   * Thank you to the people who poke their nose in here to read and decided to stay, for the dozens of guests who've left kudos. Sincerely: thank you. It's nice to see that while I wrote this mainly for myself, that other people like it too. I don't know how regular updates will be for the 3 sequels (or the prequel, or the short stories of random scenes too small for their own books) but I have every intention of continuing.
> 

> 
> Thank you! I'll see you in the next book!


	33. Book Cover (picture)

This isn't really a 'new' chapter or epilogue but my friend Elpis finished this painting and as far as I'm concerned, it's the book cover jacket _Portents_ would have if it was printed.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa :D :D :D

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone is wondering  
> I am very happy asdl;kjdfsajk;lfdsja
> 
> ~~also her commissions are open and super reasonable go get one~~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dovah Alok (Dragon Rising)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815762) by [Tyranidlord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranidlord/pseuds/Tyranidlord)




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